


Earnest Things of Gossamer Kings

by CraigTuckerish



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Absent and Abusive Parents, Albino!Clear, Angst, Cliche, Eventual Fluff, Foster home, Friends to Lovers, Human!Clear, M/M, Minor Canonical Character(s), Name Changes, OOC depending on who you talk to, OTC drugs, Orphaned Character, POV Alternating, Responsive!Noiz, Running Away, Slow Build, Stoner!Noiz, Very Slow to Update, slutbag aoba, starts in Illinois and ends in Topeka
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 13:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2027544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CraigTuckerish/pseuds/CraigTuckerish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A breath away from turning eighteen. Two thousand stolen dollars in his pocket. Nothing to miss. With Clear in tow, Noiz makes a racing B-line out of the wasteland he's called home, hoping for some wider skies and better people.</p><p>His feelings for Clear eventually clash with those hopes, and disaster not far behind. Not to mention the pure confusion.</p><p>(I'm not the best writer. Bear with me, please lol)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let's Get to the Point

**Author's Note:**

> don't read this if you're expecting anything half-decent or original. It's full of cliches, ooc teenager noiz who actually cries a lot, and a clear who is really unhappy. my headcanon characters are really, really unappealing haha!
> 
> I wrote this because I analyze things way too much, and I've always wanted to write DMMd characters as normal (enough) teenagers living in the US. HATE ME OR NOT, I gave some of them different names, though they're not always used. Kio, Mio, and Nao are under different names 100% of the time, and so is Yoshie.
> 
> Noiz's 'biological' name is Adrian, and Clear's is Milo. But I try not to overuse them. I just like the idea of /real names/ being different from /legal names/. 
> 
> all the chapters have tracks to go with them, if you're in need of pumpin tunes
> 
> but really, my planning is piss poor with this fic, and there's gallons and gallons of cough syrup being chugged. come back when i'm writing snk fanfiction LMAO.
> 
> good luck

 

**Chapter Track: You Don't Know How it Feels- Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers**

 

  
_So let's get to the point, let's roll another joint_  
_And let's head on down the road_  
_There's somewhere I gotta go_  
_And you don't know how it feels_  
_No, you don't know how it feels to be me_

  


-

 

Prologue

  
_Because I have to, I will give it all up right now._

_Because I have to, I will tell you that this isn't what was supposed to happen._

_and it's_ only because I have to _, that I will explain myself._

_Of course, however, I will only do that to who deserves an explanation._

_Because, Clear, I met you in the 10th grade. We both ate outside, and we both had no friends. Because 'fans' don't count. They never count._

_I was smoking, you weren't. You seemed all but undisturbed by my presence; The terribly seasonable red and green wool scarf you had pulled around your face, only letting your white hair and coloured cheeks bleed over the material. I noticed you had stopped wearing that bandanna and those sunglasses that you had sported before Christmas break came, so I was able to see that discolouration and the milky white eye you tried so, so hard to hide._

_It's probably something jaded that seeped into me, that provoked me to start small talk with someone of your reputation. It was in shambles, but so was mine, and that hardly made a reason to not talk to you._

_" 's Cold out." I said, trying to make any conversation. I wondered if it would be lost in the air like always, despite that it was only you as an audience._

_"It's supposed to snow this weekend." you replied, looking up at me and smiling. The only way I knew it was a smile was the way your eyes bunched up at the ends, folding up and drawing attention to your cheeks._

_I couldn't return the favour, so I only nodded and worked on my cigarette, coming out with a, "Finally," and a cloud of tobacco._

_That's how it started, Clear._

_That's all it took for me to surrender, it seems like._

_And thanks to you, I'm not nearly as strong as I thought I was._

 

Chapter One **(CLEAR'S POV)**

Noiz taps out a reply to his pot source on his phone, only half listening to Clear's story of this past weekend. It's obvious he's paying no attention, but Clear enjoys talking. As long as someone isn't grimacing, he takes all the non-judgmental time he can get.

"--Then I guess it was too late by that time. I just went to bed instead of that. Not like I was missing much." The white haired boy punctuates this with a mouthful of apple, and slumping against the brick wall behind them. He watches Noiz's tapping from his leaned position on the brick wall, not taking too much offense to the lack of attention his friend pays. He's just terrible with Multi-Tasking, Clear's observed.

"Oh yeah?" Noiz feigns that he's been listening, locking his phone and twisting his back to crack it. While facing Clear in mid-back-cracking, he breathes out another "That's crazy."

"Yeah," Clear adds. Then the silence comes.

He finds it very odd that Noiz still insists on these awkward silences. With two years of a smooth alliance under their belts, Clear definitely considers the school delinquent as a friend. A close friend, even. He doesn't talk much on days he is distracted, which is okay too.

But admittedly, the quiet does make Clear uneasy.

"It'll be too warm for your scarf here in a few weeks." Noiz says, looking out towards the parking lot that is ahead of their usual eating place. With the spring approaching, a few people have migrated out here, but it's mostly just been them.

Clear doesn't mind the cold, he can in fact bare it very well. Noiz has never said anything about it either, only gearing up in two layered hoodies and maybe a long sleeved shirt. They both say they like winter the best. Noiz, because he doesn't have to haul around , in his words, 'in that nasty, crusty ass, fucking heat'. Clear, simply because it's cloudy most days, and he doesn't have to worry about his skin too much. The lack of pigment in his skin has done him only minimal good in life.

"Finals will be here too," Clear adds with a huff. His friend only nods.

They look at each other for a brief moment, with Noiz being the one to turn away and check his phone.

"You should come over this weekend." he says it more like an order than a request. he looks clear dead in the eyes, forcing but meaning the smile he meets with.

Clear, with his flimsy feelings, can only succumb to that smile.

"Sure thing," he promises, "I'm there."

-

On his way to Noiz's house, he's considering disciplining himself. He doesn't think he's done anything wrong, because it's nothing he can help. He _could_ jokingly blame Noiz, for those eyes and that voice and great things he has to say. But he doesn't.

It's not that it's wrong, but Clear just doesn't feel like Noiz would welcome the feelings that he's been keeping for a while. Noiz is a hostile person, much to his own dismay. They don't even talk much outside of lunch and weekend hang outs. There's no solid explanation for it, either. It might be the things Noiz says when he isn't lucid enough to filter himself, or it might be that Clear is  _that kid_. He just tries not to think about it.

But he really, really likes Noiz. And luckily, he is really, really good at ignoring it.

After all, friends is enough. As long as he has a friend, Clear is happy.

Two vehicles are missing from the Hasenkamp household as he approaches, indicating that it will just be them. again. Which isn't so much of a complaint, as more of a warning to himself. Stoned Noiz is nigh.

"Work?"clear asks as he's welcomed inside. He gets nervous when he's alone with Noiz in his large house. It feels very, very lonely. The place is  _huge._ When Noiz's parents are in town (which isn't often), the house is spotless and looks unlived it. But when Noiz declares it his domain, and when his parents leave for weeks on end, it becomes a bit more bearable. Messy, but bearable.

"Yessir," Noiz flops onto his couch, leaving just enough room for Clear to nestle into the edge most cushion. Two roaches lay in the ashtray, and with open windows, Clear quickly understand that Noiz has been smoking.

"Hey, gimme that," Noiz says. Clear feels a slight tug at the worn, baby green scarf his foster-mom had knit him. He allows the German to unwrap the scarf from him, and re-apply it to himself.

"I love green, dude." he expresses, nuzzling his nose inside the yarn and smiling. Clear wonders if he knows how cute that is.

Clear feels his face redden, but masks it with a laugh and a "I know you do."

He fidgets a little, because a certain thing happens when Noiz smokes pot and invites Clear over.

He'll stare at the white-headed boy. Then he'll say something like, "c'mere" or, "heads up", and cautiously pull Clear closer. With something different in between each time, it always results in a kiss. This time is no different.

Clear hates that Noiz's lips are so soft, and that they make his heart beat faster. He's half glad that Noiz never brings these instances up outside of his house. But he can't help but be weary.

Because that's the same thing that happened with Aoba.

Except that Aoba would prefer being drunk before doing anything with Clear's sorry excuse for a body.

Clear only wishes he understood then what he does now; That drunk Aoba is not sober Aoba, and that things drunk Aoba says, he doesn't mean. Sometimes, he wishes he never agreed to attend that Christmas party with Mizuki.

But that _was_ the night he got his first 'I love you', and said it back. And it was the best possible Christmas he could ask for at the time.

The next few times they saw each other, it had been a spitting image. Aoba had ingested things, Clear had not, but they both ended up the same; slurring promises of affection and curling their legs with stupid smiles to match. Clear never understood 'insobriety' until Aoba ripped right through him like bullet holes.

For new year's, Clear spend careful and important time thinking about what to buy Aoba. He went through a mental list (Teddy bear? Too generic. Gift card? Too casual. Chocolate? Oh god no, what if he's allergic to something?), but after serious consideration, the obvious choice came as one of the last; A blue scarf, to compliment his blue hair.

With that decision in hand, Clear worked vigorously to complete what he believed to be a nice gradient of sky-to-royal blue; the tassels on the end supporting the opposite brightness of hue.

Clear, being confident for once, neatly folded it and took it with him the first day of Sophomore year's second semester.

He speculates that that's when he discovered just how grim Sober Aoba could be.

A team of them approached Clear. They seemed happy, but as he drew close, he realized that it wasn't friendliness that was putting the smiles on their faces.

"Master" was the word on everyone's lips, in the most mocking way. After the initial confusion, and when Aoba not only avoided him but put a hit out on him, he learned for himself. Sober Aoba wasn't truthful about Clear.

According to sober Aoba, the Albino boy took advantage of him and begged to call him Master. He was accused of having an 'obsession' with the blue hair, indulging in 'freaky' acts of what Clear, honestly, thought was normal. He didn't understand insobriety. Dunk Aoba told him it didn't matter. Drunk Aoba texted him " _im so wasted, get your cute ass over here now."_ , and they exchanged eye contact in blushing manners for the entirety of Christmas break.

It was from this point on, that clear began to constantly feel like dirt. He didn't mean to do this.

He wanted to grab Aoba's sleeve and ask him why he would do this, because it was him who wanted that name. Gentley, because despite the situation, Clear still can't find himself to hate Aoba. He's only intimidated.

"I thought you liked me" was all he managed to say when he locked eyes with the culprit a week later in the empty library.

"Well, I'm just sorry you lied to yourself." was the uneasy response Aoba gave. With that, he left the room and and has since let the rumors do as they will and make clear keep his distance.

The albino kid with the metal plate in his skull and those tacky face covering methods was also now some obsessed creep. So he got rid of his censors. He couldn't be any more embarrassed of his appearance than he already was by his actions.

 

That's why he's so nervous when another cute boy with soft hair kisses him. When he feels those spiked piercings dig into the skin under his lip, he can only ever think of Noiz's smile. How the faux silver lines his grin, as rare as it may be. He wishes he could enjoy the lips bring pressed to his, but it makes him sick to the bone.

Because stoned Noiz is not Sober Noiz.

And things that Stoned Noiz does, he couldn't possibly mean. That's just the way things have to be.

They're staring at each other now, the silence that fills most of their friendship taking its role and speaking.

The piercing-spiked lips curl into a smile, and a smile becomes a harsh giggle. His fingers detach from clear's waist and arm, one now cradling his cheek.

"Have you ever noticed that?" he asks through his snickering. Before he can be asked what, Noiz's thumb grazes over the two beauty marks that are embedded on the right of clear's chin. he then uses his other hand to slightly tap at both the snake bits on his own face.

"Like, they're not the _exact_  same," he eases himself, slumping back into the couch and plays with his studs with two index fingers, "But we didn't plan that, like. Not exactly a coincidence, but kinda-- incredible. In a way. Conceptually. Like us, you know."

"You think we're the same?" Clear asks on a whim.

"Most definitely." Noiz answers with seeming trust, adjusting the scarf he loaned from Clear and sighing into the material.

It's a only an hour or two more that Clear sticks around, taking the long pauses as signs of resentment; With his crossed arms and that stoic looked forever on his face, it was hard for Clear to imagine him thinking anything else.

Because, it's a non-biased opinion to say that Clear isn't very desirable. The full head of hair he had as a child had grown mousy, clashing with his speckled albino complexion and milky right eye that's nothing other than useless.

He also can't take a joke very well.

And he doesn't do anything that would land him in a clique.

The way he dresses has gotten him in some situations on itself.

'Loveable' is something he would like to be, but can live with being without.

But he'll babysit stoned Noiz, and keep his hands in his lap when he's kissed. He'll drive Noiz to the nearest EZ-Mart and buy him food when he asks. He'll play patty-cake with him, watch reality TV, and bust right back into shape when his friend starts to sober.

This time is a perfect example of a Saturday lounge-around. He watched Noiz play around on his laptop, and brought him powdered donuts because, if he could say one thing about himself, is that he is a decent friend when given half the chance. He's only ever been able to hazard three rooms in the large mansion Noiz calls 'that house'-- and that's the bathroom, living room, and kitchen.

Clear catches himself wondering that Noiz's room looks like sometime, but that's totally beside the point.

His phone catches him mid-thought. Upon checking it, he sees it's a message.

_From: Mizuki: hey rita wants you home here soon to help w dinner_

"whossat" Noiz mumbles

_To: Mizuki: I'll be home right away._

 "My brother. I have to leave soon." Clear replies.

 

* * *

 

"Ugh," Noiz groans, "Can't you just chill?"

"I'll see you Monday, like always. It's no big deal." Clear points out.

"There's no school on Monday, Clear. Bad weather day." Noiz complains even , folding into his blanket cocoon even more.

"Tuesday, then?"

"Just stay,"

"I have to be home, though. Please, please understand?" Clear begs, hoping that he looks as sorry as he feels. He knows that Noiz is lonely, but what Rita says, goes.

Noiz peaks his head out from the covers, eyebrows still knit in a temper-tantrum like state.

"... I understand," he mutters, in the same likeness of a kid being forced to say sorry. He unfolds from his cocoon and stretches a bit, keeping eye contact with Clear the whole time. Clear gives a thankful smile, but only makes a single foot out the door when he's called out to again.

"Clear," He addresses.

The accused turns to see his friend's arm draped over his eyes. "yeah?" he answers.

"You're my best friend, you know that right?"

There is a moment where Clear wonders if he's begun hearing things. But hell, he'll take whatever he gets. And that's such a nice thing to get.

His throat trembles, but he is able to push out a, "You're my best friend, too."

 

* * *

 

When he gets home, his foster mother, Rita, is the first to greet him. She runs through the usual questions ("How was your day?" "Did you have fun at your friends house?", and today she asks "would you mind cutting up the carrots here?"), and he meets her in the kitchen while answering ("Great!", "Of course," "yessum")

Obeying and slicing carrots into equal sized pieces, Clear is Rita's go-to for cooking aid. For him, it's something very easy; calculated with numbers (the only thing Clear seems to be good at), and only adding extra things for fun. Not leaving a lot to the imagination, but keeping the hands and head busy.

Clear begins to feel the temperature of boiling water and central heating. He takes this as a sign to shed his coat to the rack, and to roll up his shirt sleeves. The lightness around his neck reminds him that he forgot his scarf at Noiz's house again. He only vaguely remembers Noiz wearing it when being half asleep and arguing.

But he trusts that Noiz will take care of it. He always does.

The whole house tends to smell and feel warm and inviting when Rita cooks. She claims her natural ability to cook came from her own foster home based childhood. In her own words, _"_ _Oklahoma- based boondocks cooking is the best you'll ever taste."_

Even if Rita's food is only half as southern as she says it is, he doesn't doubt it.

One of the endless good qualities about his foster mom is that she is exactly what Clear and the others need. A _mom_. She's not some figure of authority, that clothe and feed and shelter out of obligation. As far as Rita is considered, Clear, Mizuki, and the Alabaster siblings are her biological children. And she will love them as such. He's never confided to Noiz that the fact that his home is a foster home, but it never really seemed important because it's never felt like a foster home.

Clear is really lucky to be here. He always reminds himself of that.

"Oh, honey, thank you. Cecil and Bo are fighting over something or another. I'll take it from here, huh?" She eases Clear of his duties with a smile, shooing him up to his room. He departs as told (though not without giving one of his stifling hugs to her)

He's careful with closing his bedroom door. And since he shares a room with Mizuki, he's not surprised to see him stationed on the top bunk of their beds.

Mizuki, other than Noiz, is about the only person his age who gives him the light of day. They _are_  brothers, and they _do_  act as such, but Mizuki took the route of a secondary school, so he is far graduated at this point. Now, his days consist of work, hanging with his friends (which he actually seems to have), and sleeping. Something Clear could envy, if he wanted to.

"Yo," Mizuki welcomes, eyes not leaving his iPhone. "What's good, brother?"

"Hey," Clear replies. "Exhausted as heck."

"Understandable. Y'go to Noiz's house?"

"Yeah"

"Neat-o"

They leave it at that, so Clear decides to man up and do some homework. With finals imminent, he's liable to stress out with abstract subjects. Things like art, civics, debate, etc, are way beyond his ability. If it's not calculated with numbers or direct definitions, Clear probably sucks at it.

Except Choir. He's good at choir.

His old-ish qwerty phone vibrates. The screen reads a certain name and, of course, Clear is happy to read.

_From: Noiz: im gonna take a nap can i text u when i wake up or smth_

Clear smirks to himself, and replies right away.

_To: Noiz: Of course. :)_

Because, as he's said, he's a pretty rad friend if people give him half the chance.

He commits now to buckle down and try to write an analysis on Antigone. A little boring for his tastes (he much rather have done Macbeth), but easy nonetheless. Shakespeare is one of the few non-number related things he knows front and back.

The great thing about School subjects clear is good with, is that he can let his mind let free while his hands work with numbers, or words. Sometimes it leads him to good conversation topics (to which he always notes to talk to Noiz about later on), and sometimes he simply doesn't think at all.

But, senior year _is_ approaching it's end.

And Clear _does_ need something to do with himself after he turns 18. something that doesn't involve sitting in the grass with Noiz every day.

And that something is in as little as 3 months.

Mizuki has a plan. With his diploma already in his hands, he is able to work and save money for an apartment in town. Though he's leaving in a mere three weeks, it still seems like things could never change.

 _Things change all the time, Clear. You know this more than anybody._ he tells himself.But that's not worth talking about. Not now, at least.

As if to completely tear him away from any thoughts at _all_ , two of three younger kids of the household bust through his door and take over.

"Mizuki!" the girl, Maggie, whines up to him. "Cecil is being a _total asshat._ "

Clear cringes at the 9-year-old's potty mouth.

"Ugh, what now?" Mizuki groans. He's like the king of foster kids here. It must tire him out.

"I'm not being any kind've jerk to her! She took my Game Boy and won't give it back. So I'm not giving her weird pony thing back!"

When those kids aren't bothering them, they're usually bothering each other. Mizuki jokingly says that they're the mandatory brats that everyone must deal with.

Mizuki, as if to back his joke up, dramatically flails his arms around, with another wail of frustration and a "Why can't you guys bother Clear with this shit?".

With that, he climbs down from his bunk and escorts the two kids out of the room to settle the situation.

Clear calls out, "Good luck!"

"They'll be your problem when I'm gone!" Mizuki spits back.

 

* * *

 

There are things that happen when a family is sucked into unfortunate circumstances.

Antigone, for example.

The unfortunate daughter of the first literal Mother-Fucker, Oedipus. When he sees how much of a tool he is, he gorges his goddamn eyes out.

Her brothers obviously have some problems, because they end up fight opposing sides in a war. Futile effort, you two. You both die, anyway.

Antigone can bury one brother, but not the other, since he's a traitor. If she does, she'll be executed.

The stone-cold woman does it anyway.

Her sister is all "Antigone no" but she is all "Antigone YES" and doesn't even care of her fate.

In result, practically every one dies.

Classic Shakespeare. He likes Macbeth a lot more, but this still gets his point across.

But shitty family situations is what lands kids in positions like these-- alone. Alone kids, unlike Clear, have many less options.

And Clear thinks of those kids every day.

He's a lucky boy, he's been told. And he believes it.

But is he _worth_  it?

Antigone, along with other Shakespeare things, make him churn around in his uncomfortable state of being. He's not _useful_ , in the way that a rescue like his would prove to make someone.

He's only a boy with a blind right eye with a marble collection and the terrible inability to hate anyone.

The only thing he can say for himself is that he's good at taking orders.

But what good is taking orders, being a human with free will?

It makes him ungodly confused, and distressed.

He's nothing more than a unit.

What a pathetic grounds to call himself a human on.

_bzzt._

_bzzzt._

_From: Noiz: i fell asleep in your scarf holy shit_

 

But now, he's smiling.

At least that means something.

 


	2. You Sure Must be Strong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm like-- really happy people like where this is going, but also really nervous LMAO. I've seen a lot of problems with my shit editing skills, hopefully this chapter is a bit better with that. 
> 
> I re-wrote this chapter about 4 times (once because my old hunk of laptop gave me the blue screen and I lost it all awwwwh). That's how in-confident I am about my headcanon Noiz holy smokes.
> 
> HIGH FIVES YOU thanks for reading! Sorry for lame teen Noiz, and also really cliche/ obvious foreshadowing/// remember im a poopy writer pleASE

**Chapter Track: Simple Song- The Shins**

_I know that things can really get rough when you go it alone_   
_Don’t go thinking you gotta be tough, to play like a stone_   
_Could be there’s nothing else in our lives so critical_   
_As this little home_

 

Chapter Two- **(NOIZ'S POV)**

 

Reviews are  _bullshit._

In Noiz's opinion, it's totally useless to try and speed teach a bunch of teenagers a whole year's worth of education. Especially if that education is Debate, of all classes. You go up, argue, and leave. There shouldn't be much studying to it, but there is.

It's useless to attend classes at this point in the year; every class period is either 'let's review as a class' or 'review by yourselves'. And that's how Noiz and Clear end up getting bored and trying to pull off a silent conversation with only their body language. The bird flipping turns into eye rolling; that turns into crossing eyes and trying to get the other in trouble for laughing. Clear sticks his tongue out at Noiz.

Ruuuuude.

It's fun, really. He's slightly thankful that Clear doesn't wear that bandanna or those sunglasses anymore.

If he didn't have the 'freak' card because of his anti-social, yet odd way about things, he would have it for his use in face coverings. Clear emerged at this school, having no intentions to show any part of his skin, bundling up in a heavy coat, scarf, etc. It was fucking _weird_ and _annoying_ , and everyone just about wanted to rip the things and see just exactly he was hiding when he was spotted in the hallway.

But in the second half of sophomore year, everyone got to see.

Noiz never got into the circle of gossip, but all he knew is that that black tooth printed mask and those glasses never showed up on Clear again, and Aoba had something to do with it. The darker colouration seemed to swallow half of his face, with only a plastered white eye peaking through his brown patches of skin. The white eye, unlike the opposite and active green eye, wasn't good with moving. Amoung a student body with nothing more than dyed blue hair for appearance quirk, Clear immediately began to stick out more than he already did.

That seemed to spring rumors into action, and soon Clear was nothing but unfunny Freddy Krueger jokes to the whole student body. Not that Noiz ever really thought it was fair, or clever for that matter. Up until that point, he never paid any special attention to the Albino. Noiz didn't care about Clear, because Clear didn't care about him right back.

Of course, that was before they started depending on each other's company at lunchtime. And before they started becoming friends.

 _And_ before he started getting high just for an excuse to kiss Clear and get away with it.

He's not entirely sure what exactly it is that makes him want to barge his hands all around Clear's body. Part of him wants to think it's curiosity, wondering if his torso and the rest of him is spotted in the same Dalmatian-like complexion. But most of him is just easily impressionable to anyone that doesn't treat him like the delinquent he most undeniably is. Noiz isn't ashamed to be in the situation he is with his only and best friend. We want what we want, and Noiz would hate to be at war with his desires like some people are. But alas, that's what his inebriated counterpart thinks. Rational Noiz knows better than to hang his heart on his sleeve for someone to poke at like they matter to him.

In this case, they do, but he doesn't make exceptions. Clear doesn't complain, neither of them bring it up, so it's one big whatever, and they can move on. He's good at making himself feel better about the situation.

Sadly, Noiz's only other talents are pissing his parents off, and using his fists to get his point across. The two seem to come hand in hand with each other, but he has more joy invested in his fists than being anywhere near his mother and father. At least they stay by his side (and no, that wasn't a lame joke. That's witty as hell)

It was probably 8th grade when he got into his first actual fight with Koujaku, Your Majesty royal dickshit himself. Not to say Noiz wasn't already looking for a crevice to jam his anger into, but the two have been butting heads since they could pronounce the words "piss off", so it was long overdue.

He had said some passive remark about Noiz's bad-ass Thumper rabbit printed backpack to his friends.  
  
Already being aggravated by his father that morning ("Fail one more class, Adrian, and I swear to God...") , Noiz wagged his ass in the guy's direction and snipped back "I have the boxers to match, motherfucker. Wanna see?"

It was most provocative because it's no secret that Koujaku was so deep in the closet he was halfway to Narnia in middle school. The guy was so defensive about it, too. And despite that Koujaku was the first to draw blood, Noiz was undoubtedly the one who able to walk away without a limp, and with a thee day suspension. His parents loved that. But pain tolerance is about the only positive thing he can say for himself. It's also sort of a funny story, since he started openly being in cahoots with Aoba thee years later. Not that  _anyone_ would be surprised. Assholes belong together, apparently.

Ever since this incident, he's stuck with eager tendencies to start shit. From ages fourteen to sixteen, Noiz took every opportunity to crack his knuckles and make some enemies. Now, it's only if he absolutely has to. Noiz is no doormat.

In his laughable rage, it sorta got sadistic at some point. Maybe it was the way his father's German accent flared up and his mother's face got red at the sight of his suspension forms, but he loved pissing them off and driving them to one of their vacations early. He even got in potential danger of repeating his 8th grade year with all his episodes. It's a miracle his grades weren't the ones endangering him.

But we can all agree on one thing:  _Fuck middle school_.

-

By the end of class, Noiz has scribbled all over his review, and Clear has woken up from a nap he decided to take at some point. Clear insists Noiz go on without him; he just has to run by his locker.

So he's now heading to the brick wall just on school-grounds, where he usually is for lunch. He waits for Clear, inhaling through his midday cigarette.

That's when he hears the gravel crunch, and a blank "Here he is."

he's now looking Nosy-ass Trip straight in the face, with Virus emerging behind him with that hallow smile of his. Goddamn, he hates how much he hates talking to these guys.

"We've been wondering where you run off to every day!" the shorter blonde enthuses.

Not that he has any kind of beef with Trip and Virus, but he's sort of put off by them. Even punch-savvy Noiz has trouble looking them in the eye without feeling a little-- _violated_.

"What do you need," Noiz grumbles, keeping his eyes on the dirt below them.

"We just thought it'd be nice to eat with you for once, that's all. Where's your partner?" Virus answers.

"Unlike you, we're not attached at the hip."

"You make it sound like that's a negative thing, Adrian."

Clear shows up just as Noiz rolls his eyes and grinds his cigarette butt into the ground with his shoe. He is initially startled by the extra two people, but says hello anyway.

"Just the man we wanted to see." Trip speaks up, adjusting that ugly-ass designer polo he has somehow managed to stretch across himself. "Any news on your brother?"

Clear only digs around in his backpack, withdrawing food items, but is able to recite "He's still leaving on the 29th, I'm sure."

Noiz has noticed that if anyone talks to him like a human being, it's only about his brother. Mostly these two. He can easily imagine it gets tiring.

"Good to know!" Virus injects, clapping his hands together, "He'll let us know when he's settled?"

"I.. I would think so? You can ask him." Clear answers, prying open his sandwich container. He slumps back against the brick wall and looks up at them expectantly for more questions. A few more, things that Noiz tunes out with scrolling through his twitter feed.

Trip and Virus leave soon after that, despite their claims to stay. They could give two less craps, evidently, when they each hold each other closely around the waists. _Just friends_ is almost a bigger load of bullshit than _Koujaku is straight_. When they're completely out of earshot/ eyesight, Noiz is the first to say "Those guys are fucking weird."

Clear snorts and sports a small smile. "They're just eccentric."

They leave it at that.

The last two classes drag Noiz down like weights. He meets his friend routinely after the final bell, talking a little before driving home. Noiz always loves it, despite hating it so much.

Because he _hates_  being alone anymore. He hangs onto the end-of-day conversation and is only slightly embarrassed to say that he continues it in his head after he's vegged out on his bed.

"We're, like, eighteen." Noiz scoffs, "Why is he having us do some-- bullshit assignment like that? Is this the 8th grade?"

The ever-dreaded opinion based paper has reared its ugly head. This time, their English teacher told them to write whatever they wanted about where ever they wanted.

"He said it was because we are eighteen. You know, our dream future. That's what I think, at least." Clear explains.

Noiz just shrugs. "My folks have been everywhere, but damn, I don't think I've ever left the Time Zone. I don't care about foreign places." he says, fully aware of how stupid he sounds. But it's true. He couldn't give two less shits about Europe.

"Maybe write about a place they've been to? It'd get you a grade." Clear offers.  
  
"Who wants to go to Venice, anyway? Milan. Berlin. Every crevice in Europe is just-- uggghhh. Fuck Europe." Noiz knows he's only being the bitter dick he is, but Clear always understands.

"I think Key West would be a good place for you. That's where I'm writing about." Clear says, fiddling with his house keys.

"Why live in Florida?"

"Maybe-- not _live_ , I guess. But Key West has all those haunted things .Like haunted museums and those haunted bed and breakfasts and stuff... They're really interesting."

"Interesting." Noiz echoes.

"Yeah!!" The Albino nods, "There's actually this doll I read about. If you take his picture without asking, _all_ your pictures will turn out as him when they get developed."

Noiz has slightly noticed that they've stopped walking, and are standing on the edge of the parking lot. He doesn't mind.

"How can you ask if he can't answer, Stupid?" Noiz provokes knowingly.

Clear shrugs. "I really want to find out. He used to belong to this artist that went insane. It's, like, _wow_ , they keep those things. And he even has his own room because he won't play well with the other artifacts."

Despite that Noiz has no interest whatsoever in haunted dolls, he lets Clear ramble on. It's nothing he deals with or bears; The kid gets so damn excited sometimes. It's a good look for him, as opposed to the constant of trying to fade into the wall.

And while he may be a detached prick, Noiz notices little things about him. The way his eyes shake when he's thinking to much, or the way he shows such intense interest in things that are just- not explainable. Clear loves organic things with no thinking required.

Which is weird, because he's really smart. It's just his personality that's air-headed.

But mostly, it's the way that he covers the right side of his face when he laughs hard enough. He always gets a small uneasy feeling from it, because Clear never talks about how insecure he is. But it shows so much. He tries to be nonchalant about it, acting as if he's only rubbing his eye or playing with his hair, but it's obvious.

It's something Noiz doesn't want to think about, either. So he doesn't.

-

It's only 11 AM on Tuesday, and Noiz has had it with this mess.

Mostly due to Koujaku's minions, who need to get the _fuck_  out of his face.There is some disease Noiz has that causes him to see right through the guy's bullshit, and it doesn't go down smooth for him and his gang. Apparently it takes three mini-Koujakus to bicker at one Noiz. It's impossible to be so 'in' with the police, they let you get away with drinking and driving, right? Right. It's such a flat out lie, it's almost funny.

"Of course he fucking could. Are you _kidding_  me, Thumper? You're that obsessed with him?" One says.

Noiz Scoffs.

"He could beat your bitch ass up and down these ways. I wouldn't look so cocky if I were you." Another provokes.

'Thumper' smirks and only says "So you're saying you couldn't do shit to me if you tried, huh?"

That seemed to tip it right the hell over. He can't tell these clones apart, but one of them grabs his neck from behind, and rips his hat off before wrestling him to the ground. The other two take this opportunity to throw fists at his stomach and scream the usual "how do you like me now?", and "kick his ass, Trevor." And no lies, it hurts. He mostly just doesn't plan on being grounded to the dirt of the courtyard for much longer.

A crowd draws before too long. Noiz manages to kick one in the shin and bring him to his knees. People in the background are cheering amoung them, and he notices it's mostly for him. Because everyone wants to see the spectacle that is violent high schoolers; The only part of school he seems to excel in.

His captor decks him square in the eye. _Fuck_. When they try and dirtily aim at his piercings, he draws the line. With one on the ground, he slips his head through the hold on his neck and whips around, dealing velocity with his fist right into mini-Koujaku-one's nose. The crowd woos, and one perp flees. Noiz easily takes one out with knuckles sinking into their stomach multiple times. The same shit-eating grin coils onto Noiz's mouth, because he likes the way the crowd is leaning his way.

He fucking struggles, and from the way it feels, He's probably going to have a bruised stomach and swollen lip. _Double_   _fuck_ , he tastes blood. He suspects his piercings being of contribution, but he can't make himself care right now. There's dirt and blood on his face, and the words "NOT PREY" are sharpie'd onto his back. He's happy with it.

That's only until he smiles a little at one of the minions going down, looking up to see the crowd, only looking Clear right in the eye.

_fuck._

_fuck fuck fuck, Noiz._

_You did it again._

Even though Clear has seen it before, it makes Noiz feel gross inside every time. No amount of yelling or threats from parents could strike half the fear that milky eye contact does. Clear has this huge pair doe eyes, that emote on a microscopic level. He's the only teenager not jumping up and down, but clinging to his hoodie and staring right through his friend. This is--  _fantastic._

When the teachers rip Noiz apart from his victims, he can only expire his momentary rage and listen as they bark at the student body to return to class. While Clear can make him feel like a legitimate person, he can also inadvertently switch him back to ' I am the scum of the earth' mindset.

Noiz's only real friend hesitantly waves goodbye before walking to class, and he looks at his damage. Perp number one has a bloody nose and black eye. The others had fled, but his violence does tend to do that.

Fuck violence.

Before the haul Noiz to the office, they grudgingly allow Noiz to pick up the hat that was thrown to the ground and stomped over during the course of the fight.

It's really, really dirty.

He only hopes he can get the boot prints out.

 

* * *

 

 

_To: Clear:  its fucking pointless anyway. the year'll be done before i get out._

_From: Clear: I'm just happy they didn't give you a longer sentence._

_To: Clear: a week doesn't sound like a long sentence to you??_

_From: Clear: Not to be rude, but they could have done much worse things to you, with your record. :(_

_To: Clear: that makes sense. w/e nap time it is._

_From: Clear: Hope you feel better, Noiz. Talk later!_

_To: Clear: right back @ cha_

 

* * *

 

The first thing he does when he goes home is drive to Wal-Mart and use his stubble to buy a certain box of something to take home without being carded.

 The second thing is come home, and rip sixteen of them out of their silver casing as quick as he can manage. He doesn't like today, and wants to shove it off a cliff.

The third is trying to dry swallow eight red circles, and wash down two more with water. It's dark out now. He'd sat in the car in silence for much longer than he thought.

The fourth is lying to his ~~crush~~ friend and watch scary movies on the couch. When he starts vibrating and finding solace in a EZ-Mart laced trash bin, he finally feels like enduring the angry calls of his father. He is in a lot of trouble this time.

He thinks of the unfilled adoption papers sitting in his mom's desk. They date back to when he was two years old; back when his successful brother, Christopher, left for college. He takes a walk instead of taking them out to look at again.

The fifth thing he does is take a walk. The jitters that a polka-dotted dextromethorphan palm makes sure that he is incapable of remembering things. Not the adoption forms. Not the suspension ones. Not his brother, mother, father, or even his ~~crush~~ best friend.

It's 12 AM now. Day one of suspension.

The sixth thing Noiz does when he goes home is stand on the edge of the highway. He doesn't amuse the idea of stepping out into it, no, but watches the cars speeding past him. How they can leave. How they're not stuck in some half-relationship with their only friend, or at constant mercy of their angry father.

 

He wonders how many of those cars are going to Florida.

 


	3. This Will End Someday, in Some Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS??? !!!
> 
> ABUSIVE PARENTS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW SO THIS CHAPTER IS KINDA WEIRD TO ME AND I CANT TELL IF THAT'S GOOD OR BAD lol. My junior year starts tomorrow, and I got a job starting in the next coupel of weeks, so please don't hate me if I'm slow to update
> 
> BUT I'm gonna man up and finish it no matter what, because people seem to like where I'm going with this whole "writing dmmd characters as normal characters with normal enough qualities". you guys are way too nice to me
> 
> ahhh I'm really humbled, like, it's really motivating me. AND I KNOW I SAY THIS WAY TOO MUCH but it also makes me nervous that i'll mess it up with a certain chapter or a headcanon or something.
> 
> IRREGARDLESS, I'M GOING TO FINISH THIS FANFICTION WHETHER WE LIKE IT OR NOT. IM GONNA FINISH SOMETHING FOR ONCE B')
> 
> also this chapter track is by my favourite band of all time. if i could i would make every chapter track by them. omfg
> 
> please try to enjoy ;o;!!

 

**Chapter Track: Wonderless- Pierce the Veil**

 

_And if you don't find me in a movie_   
_Find a way to say that you knew me_   
_And if you don't find me on the front page_   
_Find a way to say that you saw me_   
  
_And if you don't find me at all_   
_Then I won't care_

 

**Chapter Three (Noiz's POV still)**

 

He's still on a red buzz when his parent's Hummer wheels into the driveway. Noiz knows he fell asleep without even attempting at cleaning the mess he left from the past few days, just like he knows he's going to get major shit from it. But hell, once he's in trouble, his fate is sealed. Noiz has long given up trying to better his situation with these people.

He still doesn't feel like talking when his father wakes him up and yells at him for what feels like hours.

"Do you _know_  how much it costs to keep you in that school? How many times they're tried to throw you out?" His heavy German accent insults the empty air. Sometimes Noiz wishes he could speak the language he was born into, but apparently, in order to learn it naturally, your parents must be around enough in order to learn. So Noiz doesn't know any more than a handful of phrases.

Noiz doesn't want to reply, though he knows that he's a problematic kid who's only enrolled anymore as a result of bribery. His dad, in turn, snorts out  _"U_ _nglaublich"_

"Unbelievable.  _Do you_?" he repeats

"Yes, Sir." Noiz says quietly. It's just better to let his dad get it all out.

His father eyes him with that scowl on his face. Despite that it's vividly clear how his parents feel about him, They still claim him as their son. It makes him ungodly uncomfortable, but he's almost 18, after all, and leaving at this point could only be a last resort.

Though reluctant to admit, Noiz has exhausted every option. He's been wanting to leave for months now. He figures it's the black eye his father gave after his son got yet _another_  piercing back in January. The thing with his family is that, apparently they can do all the damage they want as long as they say 'sorry'. Which, in no matter the context, is a load of horse shit.

"It won't happen again, son." he had said at the kitchen table, putting the offending hand over his son's. "We just want what's best for you."

Noiz bit his tongue to refrain from spitting out that " _it"_  has happened countless times. His parents come, they scoff, they yell, they hit, and they leave.

He wants to leave so, so badly.

Noiz is not listening. But his dad, at some point, has decided that Christopher needed to be talked about. Which is bogus, so he tunes him out and only nods when the supposed questions are answered.

This is probably stupid in eight different ways, but when his dad yells, Noiz extinguishes whatever rage builds up inside him with day dreaming of action-based one-liners. Like blowing smoke in a cute boy's face, or teaching that boy the best kinds of movies to watch while non-sober.

Meaning that, he ignores the gross way his dad chooses to say his name, and thinks of things that don't make him want to shoot himself. Namely, his only real friend.

"-- piss your life away."

_Clear probably laughs a lot when he's stoned.  
We should watch a really bad movie and make fun of it._

"take advantage of your mother and me? I'll-"

_Clear would probably like his vodka mixed with orange soda.  
The taste might be too harsh for him on its own._

"Make that face, one more time, Adrian--"

_If the situation ever comes up, I should buy coloring books._   
_Clear probably likes to do those kinds of things if he ever got stoned._   
_Plus he's good at colouring._

"Listen to me!"

The hand sweeps across his face, and the pain is immediate.

That tears his mind away from anything good, and his eyes focus only to see a monster staring daggers at him. His dad's face is red with anger, again, and his mom sits solemnly on the opposing side of the couch with her hand over her mouth. She stares at the carpet instead of her husband, and probably won't say another word until they bounce for China. Again.

It stings. It burns. It makes Noiz feel like he's not worth the saliva his dad then spits into his hair.

Don't tell anybody, but the gesture makes him want to crawl into the backseat of his car and die. Noiz isn't strong right now.

Maybe he's the ungrateful punk he's been accused of being.

His mom's eyes are closed, only to welcome a welling silence.

"Get to your room. I don't want to see you until you can act like a civilized human being." His dad says grudgingly, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and shoving it into Noiz's hands. "Wipe that off. Go to bed."

Dis dad leaves the room.

His mother, after a soft touch on Noiz's cheek and offering a worn smile, trails after him.

Noiz is only left to stare at the same carpet she was, tracing through the patterns of vines and embroidered flowers, and wonders if it's so interesting that it's worth ignoring the fatherly saliva in his hair, and the print on his cheek.  

 

* * *

 

He stares at Clear's name in his contacts list in the dark for much longer than necessary. He saw Clear tweeting a joke about his brother's music taste, or something, so he's most definitely awake. Noiz isn't normally one to call his friend under normal circumstances. They're mostly limited to text and Twitter interactions outside of school and his living room.

Today, however, has sucked. They'll talk on the phone if they're too arsed to type, which Noiz is.

With no school, with parents around, and no money, he's stooped to watching Netflix and sleeping 93% of the day, and trying not to cry the other 7%. He'd do absolutely anything to get him out of the house, even if it was just Clear on the phone to take his consciousness elsewhere.

But if Noiz is left up to it, he'll end up staring at his screen for hours before crashing and waiting or his friend to text him first. He's been laying on his mattress in the dark for what feels like ever. The sore cheek, dirty hair, and crabby mood Noiz has been in doesn't really let him do much else. His parents calls it sulking, but he calls it 'trying to sober up in fucking peace, not pieces'.

Sparing a glance at the upper bar of his phone screen, he sees that it's just past 12 AM. A little late for the likes of Clear to still be up and about, which is admittedly a little suspicious, but it's not like either of them are expected to be in a normal setting right now.

So his fingers act for him; pressing the phone icon next to Clear's name before he can oppose of it himself. He totally doesn't count, but three and a half rings go by before the receiver himself answers.

"Hey, Noiz" Clear answers, quieter and more careful than he usually sounds. Definitely not a groggy tone, but not an excited one either.

"What's up," Noiz reacts with the same amount of nonchalant-ness, "Actually, what are you doing up so late?"

Clear chuckles. "I was about to ask you that, actually."

"Livin' the life with my Hulu account and Twitter."

"Gosh, Noiz, make sure to remember the little people. Don't forget about me in your fast life, 'kay?"

Noiz then sneers, "Just to spite you, I will. What are you even doing?"

His friend seems to hesitate before answering, "I'm actually at my brother's new place in the bedroom. It's all empty and echo-y, and his friends-- Well, Trip and Virus are here" he seems to pause. Maybe planning his words. "I'm glad you called, actually. They're just smoking in the living room and stuff."

Smoking sounds so good right now, but he refrains mentioning it.

"How's he liking the place?" Noiz asks.

Another bout of silence fizzles on the end of the line, before some shuffling.

"It's nice." he ends up saying, "Mizuki really likes it here."

"Good"

Just before Noiz thinks there will be more quiet, Clear stammers a little. "Yeah, yeah it is. They were actually wondering if, like, you'd wanna come over some time." voices mumble in the background, to which Noiz can only assume are the smoking company. He hears a distant, "alright, alright."

"Tonight, they said. Since you're the one who has anything to do with smoke in this friendship, and they have pot and, hah-- yeah."

God, yes.

God. Yes yes yes.

A stoke of luck has thrown itself into Noiz's wake, and he's not about to waste this opportunity.

"Yeah, I got nothin' going on." He finds himself already slipping on his battered Vans, "What's the apartment number?"

"I... Wait,"

For a second, he thinks he's sounding too eager (which, honestly, he really is. But sometimes he is all too aware of the straight-edge innocence of Clear), but it only turns out that Clear had given his phone over the the owner of the place. He hears that goddamn shuffling again, and he has to pull his phone away from his ears a bit.

"Hey." Mizuki says.

"What number?" Noiz continues.

"It's 213. You know the apartments just off Draughn street, right?"

"I live on Draughn. Those're the ones?"

"Yeah."

"Sweet, thanks."

"No problem. Knock first."

With that, Mizuki hangs up. Which is a little rude, but considering that he's only a fifteen minute walk at most from the guy's house, it's understandable.

 

Thank whatever deity there is above that his parents sleep just like he does. Sleeping like the lumps they are, Noiz has no problem sneaking through the unused dog-door in the back. He doesn't know why they bother keeping it; It came with the place, but his mother hates animals. But it works and he allows himself to smoke through the last two of his cigarettes on the way to Mizuki's.

He's starting to believe that this night won't suck as much ass as this week has, and with tomorrow being Friday, he'll soon be amoung the student population again, just in time to see the end of the year.

Now that he thinks about it, Noiz and Mizuki have smoked together a few times, despite not being 'friends'. The only thing they have in common is Clear, so above that, they have nothing else to talk about. He left school in their Junior year, graduating early in some secondary school program and entering adulthood at an alarming rate. Noiz has considered the program himself, but in his father's words, H _ow will you amount to anything then? you barely move as it is._

Noiz grunts and grinds his cigarette into the sidewalk to ward off anything considering his parents. He tries to remember that they are _not_  worth his thoughts, and he will _not_  let them ruin his high again.

When he knocks on the door, there's only a moment's wait before his oddly-awake-at-midnight best friend answers the door, with that smile of his. A haze of smoke instantly wafts Noiz's way, but it's only a pleasant thing to see.

"Hey!" Clear chimes.

Behind him, Mizuki and company wave, except Trip. He's expertly focused on rolling something, and with his skills, he's not expected to say anything. His blunts are factory-like perfection, and it's envious.

"Hey," Noiz says back, with being welcomed in and taking a seat on the floor.

Clear wasn't exaggerating when he said it was empty, and had an echo. There was no couch, nothing but a slew of junk food coating the counter tops, and he could see a single toilet paper roll sitting on the bathroom floor. It wasn't by any means a nice apartment, but it was very suiting in the way that a first time owner could afford to smile while renting.

A small radio linked to an AUX cord and an iPod was humming in the kitchen, though Noiz didn't recognize the artist. This was exactly the sort of thing that made him a jealous sort of empty. That Mizuki, despite only being a month older, has already got his life into gear. That he lounges around in this town by choice, and does it without a bitter bone in his body.

Hell, that Mizuki can buy pot at a moment's notice and smoke it at a moment's notice, too.

Clear wedges in between Noiz and Trip. They don't mind. The rotation is put into motion when Trip reveals his work.

Noiz and Clear, at first, are the only ones un-stoned. The Trash-team and Mizuki have had a red glaze in their eyes since Noiz has arrived here, and despite that his spotless friend is right beside him, Noiz refuses to go another minute with this 'sober yet again' bullshit.

He takes his first inhale from Trip's blunt with utmost triumph. It's good, and it's smooth and he needed this.

"So, Dude," Mizuki starts, "These guys tell me that you got suspended again?"

"Yeah. Just a fight," Noiz says. He plans on leaving it there.

"Iconic." Trip says through his smoke.

"Legendary." Virus joins, his voice slimy as ever.

"Classic." Mizuki smiles, slightly tipping the blunt up in a toast.

Noiz rolls his eyes. He forgets how tightly-knit these nerds are. He and Clear share a stare, which is originally meant as a silent agreement that these three are _what?_ But the Albino only shrugs. He's not too interested in the fight.

"Were you ever able to clean your hat?" He asks, his stare unwavering.

Because Clear knows how annoyed Noiz is with his own reputation. And he knows that Noiz will not, under any circumstances, complain about resulting pain or details. Clear knows that his chullo hat is his pride and joy, and the fact that it was stomped on in the dirt is far more sad than any bloody lip.

Noiz smiles and nods, ashing the blunt and reaching over his friend to give it to Trip.

Mizuki, Trip, and Virus are very bad at getting wrapped up in their own conversation. It's not much of a complaint, since this only means that Noiz will be smoking pot without having to interact as much as he thought.

Instead, he finds himself thinking in over detailed ways. Reading into every possible dialogue he could be saying, has said, or could say soon. He tends to get this way when he's stoned, so he's never really understood the good mood people tend to be in around him. For that matter, he doesn't understand why he insists on being stoned at all, when all he does is think.

He tries to run a hand through his hair, but some of it is damp. It's fucking gross. It's so fucking gross.

He hates it when it gets this way.

Noiz sometimes lets his pointless rage bleed into his inebriation, and it spoils his whole high. He's still thinking in details grooves-- but these are bad.

These make him think of his parents, and how unfamiliar them and their voices are. Why on Earth could they feel the need to put a name on him? Because they're the reason he's here? Because they pay for that prison- house that he wallows around in on days he can't be fucked to deal with sunlight?

They've never called him useless, but the implications are much stronger than words. He'll never be Christopher, he'll never go to Venice, and he'll never be able to keep a job, or a crowd for that matter.

The word "mess" has been flown around, accompanying his name. "issue" and "problem" have, too. His parents obviously aren't home enough, considering they overestimate the thin walls in their house. Noiz can here them in the bathroom when he's not pissing loud enough, he swears.

But all Noiz could possibly think to act on is the fact that is so incredibly stoned right now. And how he still hasn't cried.

Mizuki and company's buzz of talking have long since washed away from his earshot, and he's far out of the realm of thinking even thirty minutes ahead.

"Hey, are you feeling alright?" Clear asks. It surprises him, though only slightly.

"Yeah." He says, but the next part comes out of his jaw without realizing it, "Are you?"

Clear's face smiles. It's not convincing, but it's enough for right now. The albino talks even less than Noiz does when it comes to things coming from the core-- It's known to spike up Noiz's questions. Questions that are never asked, but loom around the weird thing they call a friendship.

However, Noiz doesn't expect Clear to lean in closer. It nearly gives him a heart attack, but his excitement is wasted. He's just stoned and emotional.

"You look upset." Clear whispers, a worried look etched into his expression.

Noiz could never being himself to lie to that face.

"I am." he answers simply, staring back into said expression feeling that yucky feeling in the pit of his stomach again.

  
_ow._

"They knocked your bites loose, huh," Clear pouts to himself.

Clear's eyes are now on his lower lip, and his thumb just grazes over where snake bites used to be. The scuffle between him and the sophomores made the lip piercings unwearable for a few days. His lower lip in general is sore, but the only reaction Clear provokes is a grunt.

"Assholes," Noiz mutters.

"Assholes," Clear agrees.

Mizuki chooses this point to announce that he's packing another bowl, and Noiz can't help but think that it's a wonderful idea.

However, being inebriated on grass is a lot more provoking than being high on Dex. He hates admitting this so, so much, but he gets feelings when smoking pot. As in, non-hostile feelings. He tends to act like the human being Clear sees him as.

When the bowl is gone, Noiz realizes he's far off too. At some point he'd decided to lean against Clear's shoulder and make a bad decision by losing himself in thoughts about spit and heavy German accents.

"Noiz?... Noiz."

"Huh." Noiz mumbles.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

He feels this pit in his chest open up. Yes, he does want to talk about it. 

"It's fine." He finds himself saying. "I'll live."

Clear smiles nimbly again, saying "C'mon", and leading him to the back bedroom by the hand. Mizuki asks what they're doing, and Clear only answers with a "We'll be right back", and some gesture that Mizuki replies "-- Oh. Oh, okay." to.

He's so dizzy, and miserable, yet has somehow found a way to be comfortable with his hands latched to somebody else's.

He's happy Clear exists right now.

 

**(CLEAR'S POV)**

Clear decided that it was in their both best interest if nobody commented on the red of his cheek. For Mizuki, it was easy to distract himself with his friends. But for him, he watched carefully as Noiz retreated further and further into his mind.

He does this a lot when he is stoned. Whereas Trip and Virus get gossipy (and according to Mizuki, handsy when alone), Noiz only gets quiet. His sour expression melts, but it's only a a lonely one that surely must feel a whole lot worse.

So he drags Noiz into the back room, with his brother's permission, and sits him down. He's thankful that Mizuki is one of the nicest guys in existence, and never pries into anybody's business.

Noiz just stares at the floor. One of his shoulders shrugs, and he tries to find something to say, but it falls short.

"-- He did that?" Clear finds himself asking.

Noiz nods. "Uh huh." he mutters.

"Because of the fight."

Noiz nods again.

Clear reaches forward, seeing the red that threatens the rims of his friend's eyes and brushes his hair back. Noiz has this terrible habit of keeping bedhead all day. Sometimes he's nice enough to let Clear comb it. But not now, because he's missing his hat and his lip piercings, and looks like general hell. It makes a terrible feeling emerge in Clear's chest.

Noiz's sigh is broken in many places, because now his chest heaves up and down to fight any oncoming tears.

Everything aside, he brings Noiz into his chest and pats his back, urging him to let it out. They know it doesn't leave the bedroom, just like the kissing doesn't leave Noiz's couch, so it's easy to encourage his friend to not bottle up his feelings for once.

"I'm sorry." Clear murmurs. Noiz obliges with a stifled whine into his jacket. Clear knows he has nothing to be sorry for, but somebody should give Noiz the apology he deserves. A  _real_ one.

While he lets Noiz vent out his frustrations the the form of tears, Clear tries to remember than anger wouldn't get him anywhere.

Because he's been fighting anger a lot lately.

He's been angry with change, and with not knowing who exactly he is. Anger with himself, and it's been provoking resentment from him.

But now, he's angry with Noiz's family.

Because family is supposed to mean so much- and they've planted this inferiority complex in their youngest son that causes him to stand his ground with kids he hates, and confide in kids who are just as confused as he is.

They're both the same amount of lost in different fields of contempt. And that's what draws them together.

Noiz can't help himself, he knows, they both know. The German's grip on Clear is a little smothering, but he lets it go. It's almost over, he thinks, until tear-soaked Noiz grabs Clear by the back of his head and pulls him down into a kiss.

Ah.

Clear is all too aware that he shouldn't be kissing Noiz back. He knows this isn't right, and he already feels like the scum of the earth for it. But _God_ , if anything, all he has to say for himself is that he doesn't know when the last time this will happen will be. It's almost funny, that he forgets about his own crush until it confronts him, and it only brings him to his figurative knees and beg for mercy.

But- This kiss is spiteful. The softness that Clear usually compliments of his lips are pressing hard into his mouth, because Noiz has had a rough week. He's only heard stories, but Clear understands that the Hasenkamp men are those of violence. Whether Noiz likes it or not, he is bred for that disinterested look in his eyes. And Noiz  _does not like it._

The shorter male prods his tongue in, his piercing clinking against Clear's teeth while he shoves him even tighter in his coiled arms. This isn't a shy, or even cocky kiss Noiz is prone to giving. This is one that's trying to smear away the last 72 hours, and forget he even exists. Clear knows him all too well to amuse this.

Clear knows this isn't okay, and that Noiz is troubled by something lodged in his stoned mind. He doesn't understand what part of Stoned Noiz thinks that Clear's lips will make it all okay, but he can't let the hateful versions of things he likes get too far.

So he breaks the kiss, as bent as his friend seemed on it going somewhere.

They're both in the wrong place and mindset for these kinds of things. Clear is too busy repressing anger, and Noiz is too beaten to care about himself. 

But holding Noiz by the waist, and hoping that's enough, Clear tries to get the hang of his intents. He shoves it in his mind over and over, that he's more responsible for this person's feelings than his parents are. That he's just a lonely kid who wants to figure himself out, just like Clear.

  
_They just want to know what the hell they're doing with themselves._

"I'm okay." Noiz insists immediately after having his lips rejected. "Jus' tired."

Understandable. There's no need to linger on this. "Do you want me to take you home?" he asks slowly. The word 'home' doesn't quiet seem right.  
  
"Don't fucking bother," Noiz swears, "I'm leaving that place."

"Leaving?"

"Goin' somewhere else form now on. Fuck them, Clear. I'd be happier living in a hotel room."  
  
The quiet is still uncomfortable.

"You should come." He finally says.

"Noiz, Please. You're just upset."

"Hell yeah, I'm upset! You're thinking it too, aren't you? We're both stuck here. We're not like Mizuki. We're not happy, Clear. I see it in your eyes."

"Noiz," Clear starts. He wishes the strain in his voice wasn't so obvious.

  
"Clear," Noiz snarks back.

  
Clear sighs through his nose. He's not angry with his friend. He's just not as capable as Noiz thinks he is. Don't get him wrong, if there's any person he'd gladly follow across the world, it's  _him_ , but stoned Noiz says and does things that aren't as credible as he thinks they are. Clear tries to think of a different direction to steer the conversation in, because this is ridiculous.

"We're the same." Noiz repeats before he can.

"I know." Clear says uneasily. "I remember."

To that, Noiz's lips curl up the slightest bit.

"But for now we're tired." Clear continues, "Let's talk about all this in the morning, 'ight?"

"Sure." is the passive, yet hesitant response Noiz gets. His mind is undoubtedly sticking with the rage towards his father, and Clear is confident that the feeling will pass once he gets some sleep.

Clear then withdraws from the room, asking if Noiz could stay in the apartment, and receiving a couple of blankets with a knowing smirk from his brother. Of course, with Mizuki being the good guy he is, he doesn't hesitate before giving them reign over the back room for the night; He, Trip, and Virus wanted to stay up a little longer and sleep in the living room anyway.

When he returns, Noiz is laying on his back, holding his phone above him and scrolling through something. There's rarely a time where he doesn't do this out of boredom. They spread one blanket on the floor to sleep on, another to sleep under, and one to wad up and lay their heads on.

They take their shoes and jackets off, neatly placing them in the corner to retrieve later. After turning the light out and finding comfort under the covers, Clear doesn't really expect Noiz to do anything but sleep. 

There's obviously some consciousness left in him, because Noiz presses his back against Clear. In the dark, he clumsily looks for his friend's wrist, eventually finding it and pulling it by the wristband over his waist. 

"There." Noiz mumbles.

Clear takes a hint, and positions himself more accurately; Holding his friend close against him and cradling him from behind. There's a voice in his head that's telling him to  _stop right there, Mister_ , but this is harmless. It has to be. 

"Good night." he whispers.

"You too." Noiz replies.

Neither of them see a point in talking after this. Clear has his arms protectively around his shorter friend, sighing into his neck and deciding that sleep is a good idea for the both of them. What exactly he is protecting Noiz from, he hasn't entirely set on, but at least this way he'll know if he tries to leave. Harmless.

Noiz sighs just after him, which must be a mutual sign that, yes, they're alright for now.

Although Noiz falls asleep within the next ten minutes, Clear isn't so lucky. In the throw of blankets in the empty back room, he can only find himself staring out of the window blinds, and still mildy feeling those spiteful lips on his neck.

_Harmless?_

_It has to be._

The quiet terrifies him.

But he can eventually force himself to sleep.

 

* * *

Mizuki shakes them both awake at roughly 6 AM. The sky is a dim blue, since the sun has yet to rise, but it's morning nonetheless.

He's tangled up with Clear underneath the sheets; At some point in time Noiz had turned over and has been breathing into his friend's shirt. He's not keen at all with the idea of getting up, especially when he remembers he snuck out of his house.

Fuck it.

It's not like they check.

Clear, however, does get up.

He asks Noiz gingerly if he wants to sleep some more. It's okay, he says, but pity lines his voice.

"No," Noiz says, "It's fine."

Emerging form the back room, clumsily shoving his jacket back over his body, he notices that Trip and Virus are as awake as can be. The two look as made up as they always do. How the hell they pull it off has got to be some sort of black magic.

"Good morning." They say in creepy unison.

Noiz just grunts.

He's not too pleased with the pleasantries. The shower Mizuki offers him (Since, he's sure everyone has noticed, he looks about as shitty as he feels), the coffee he's 'free to help himself to', or the ride home. The radio has long since been unplugged, at some point, so the totally silent aesthetic Noiz is familiar with at this hour surrounds the group of teenagers.

"I'm still taking you?" Mizuki asks his bother, as said brother hoists himself onto the kitchen counter.

"I'm not going today." Clear announces in his morning voice, which isn't too loud, but sounds like it in the aura that is 6 AM.

"You're not usually the type to just _skip_ school." Mizuki says suspiciously. Clear shrugs and cradles the foam cup of caffeine.

"It's just today." He smiles. "I'm sleepy still."

Noiz doesn't like talking right now. The adhesive of pot smoke and morning breath have made his mouth uncomfortable with talking, so he instead to be only an attendee to the conversation, not a participant.

"How 'bout you? You two skipping together?" Mizuki points his direction to Noiz. 

Clear just cuts in for him and says, "Mizuki, he's-"

Mizuki instantly becomes aware that Noiz isn't allowed on school grounds until Monday, and cowers a little. "Sorry. Force of habit." He says, and it's genuine. Guilty smile and all.

"'s fine." Noiz replies. He doesn't see why he's being coddled so much.

Trip and Virus then chime in that they do, in fact, want rides to school. Since it's nearly 7, the trio leaves in order to find something interesting to do other than smoke the rest of their pot. Clear insists on staying behind; He drove here anyway.

Mizuki spares one of those pats on Noiz's back that makes him feel like  _something_ leaked through the weak bedroom door. It's embarrassing, but he swallows it and thanks Mizuki for everything as he leaves. It's just him and Clear when the door closes.

Clear, again with that  _look_ on his face, asks if he could  _please drive Noiz home_.

"Just walk me." he compromises at last. Whichever postpones climbing back through that dog door.

So that's what happens. Neither of them talk, and there's an aesthetic that neither of them should. The linings of Summer are near, so the sixty degree weather is the last they're going to see of hoodie weather for a while.

Noiz feels so-- out of place right now.

He doesn't understand, and hopes it's something he can sleep away.

It stays like this until they're walking down the street Noiz lives on. Clear speaks up with a timid, "Oh, hey, do you still have my green scarf?"

"Yeah." Noiz says, "I'll get it for you when we get there."

"No- No, actually." Clear argues shyly, "I was just gonna say that y'can have it."

"-- I mean, you wear it more than I do. And it's your favourite, so, it's like, hey." he tacks on the end with a smile.

Noiz smiles back. Smiles to Clear are forced sometimes for the sake of courtesy, an this is no exception. He is appreciative though.

"Cool." is all he says.

 

* * *

 

 

**(CLEAR'S POV)**

He walks himself back to Mizuki's apartment complex, only to climb into his car and take a breath to himself. He's glad Noiz didn't try and continue his insane scenario of  _running off_ _, because fuck parents_ , but this only makes Clear more worried than before.

Clear hates how worried and overwhelmed he gets with every single thing. It's such a flaw.

The drive home holds no traffic. This town has never been known to be busy. When he is home, he seriously considers sleeping on the couch rather than look at his half empty room.

So, Mizuki is gone.

And Rita expects Clear to be next. She's not thrilled, but she's more proud of them than sad. She raised good kids, she brags.  _Beautiful_ kids, she always says, punctuating with a pinch on the cheek to whoever is nearest.

He ends up laying on the couch, not really sleeping, but not doing much of anything else either. 

He doesn't want to live in an apartment. Not here. 

Honestly, he's been aching to graduate in order to move somewhere where his reputation isn't... Well,  _this one_. He's cautiously aware that both him and Noiz are both eager to bolt from this pit of a home, and part of him wonders if leaving will automatically fix what's wrong with them.

Clear quickly says to himself that  _no_ , it will not. 

Because he'll still be a lanky, albino mess without an ounce of free will in his being. He'll still be some dense kid who is nervous, blind in one eye, and freckled with an ugly brown complexion.

Noiz will still be an angry stoner with daddy issues, who hates crying so much that he has to be begged to even do it. His fists will still look for trouble, and he'll still only find real solace in a handful of cold medicine, no matter what he says opposing it.

That's just how things are.

But it's okay, because they've got to cross each other out in some ways. Clear is calm enough. Noiz is ready enough. They'd be fine, huh?

Hypothetical situations only keep him awake.

So he turns the TV on only to ignore it and sleep a  _little._

_Harmless?_

_It has to be._

 

 


	4. That's What the Ghost of Someone's Dad Might Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGERS: car accidents, reference of teen pregnancy, death of family, depression, FLEA MARKETS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just say that my headcanon Clear in general is actually a little mixed up in the head, balancing angry and happy. My friend said Clear's depression is OOC, but I don't think so? I might be totally wrong but I think Clear is a lot more serious than he lets people think ok thank u im stupid b y e
> 
> this chapter is 100% clear bein clear; kind of tried to nOT make it cliche but apparently i cant do it haha. next chapter is 100% noiz being a sad butthole. sorry about how long it took to update/// something came up in my personal life, i am my work's bitch, and my writing is slowly getting lousier. i tried to ease into clear's flashback to no avail i am an abrupt lil thing forgive me haha
> 
> anyway, im sorry that this chapter is really scattered around and fast moving (or at least it seems that way to me), I'm tryin here (cries sofrly on ur shoulder) 
> 
> (whispers stetson and james r the alpha twins if u can dig it)

**Chapter Track: Gnashville- Why?**

_Sometimes I claim to know a guy,  
_ _but I can't tell you what his hands look like._  
 _"Alright, so...Guess who's coming to dinner."_  
 _Gnashville; Never in the night._

 

**(CLEAR'S POV)**

 

"Honey, you comin' or not?" Rita called to him from the front door, as Clear somehow found the strength to pick a clean shirt to slip on. Sadly, since the weather is heating up, he's reduced to a T-shirt that bears his speckled right arm, but now he can wear sunglasses in proper context. If he hates anything, it's the stupid sun.

"Coming!" He replies readily, despite that he's so tired. The nap that swallowed up the whole of Friday had bit him in the back, screwing his sleep up. Usually, waking at 8 AM is no big deal, but he feels about ready to fall down the stairs rather than walk down them.

The first Saturday of what Rita deems as "Beautiful Weather" is the day where her and the kids roam around town, raiding yard sales and flea markets for all they're worth. The foster house is crowded as a result; Rita's love for anything colourful or shaped like a hen is bought and put proudly on display. What things are not bought from such settings are things that her children have made her; pot holders and first-grade finger painting galore. A few of Clear's mandatory art class' pinch pots are somewhere in the swarm, even though he's terrible at art. While he thinks it's a little hazardous with the rowdiness of the youngest children bumping and crashing into things like nothing else, it's cozy. Definitely personal. Stunningly warm at Christmas.

She's already herded up the kids into the back of the car with the payoff of Pop-tarts. With Mizuki gone, Clear is now Rita's go-to for help with them. So, while she excitedly gets her purse together and raves about things she's seen while driving by, Clear dives into the pantry to grab said Pop-tarts. He's not hungry, or even thirsty right now. He'd rather be asleep, like any other teenager at this hour, but he likes to think it's not an inconvenience. He shouldn't be sleeping all day anymore. He's about to be an adult.

Clear's job from then on is to keep his younger siblings from making too much of a fuss. Flea Market shopping was boring to them (and to him, really), but Rita deserves this time, and he's more than happy to help her enjoy it. They stay in the car during the yard sales, Clear having to improvise entertaining them, and he's surprising good with it. 

Mostly, he bribes their good behavior with the movie he's promised to take them to with Mizuki. He amuses their prattling about everything from cartoons to the school book fair, and before too much 'I'm bored' fuss comes along, their mother is already springing closer to the van.

"Mama, are you coming to the movies with us?" Bo asks when Rita climbs back into the van, only a handful of items clutched in her palm. She beams at the rear-view mirror to see him, only to say "No, Clear and Mizuki are taking you. I got stuff to do at home, Hon." in an equally happy voice.

Clear's never set himself into the habit of calling Rita, 'mom', since he's only been here from age 14. But the triplets, they were practically newborns when they were given to her. Rita rarely opens her mouth about that sort of thing, but he has it on good authority (read: Mizuki) that their mother was only a teen, and three children at once was understandably overwhelming. Mizuki says that she called once; A faint, polite womanly voice just calling to ask how they were doing. She refused the offer to talk to one of her children, in a hesitant but frantic voice. 

She's a good girl, Rita told him. Just never quiet ready enough for three children. And she said it with a low voice mixed with both sincere interpretation and dreadfulness.

But for Clear, who's only been around for 5 years anyway, she's still as much of a mother as "Rita" could mean.

 

* * *

 

Clear, publicly, remembers little of his initial family; He recognizes the tiniest grooves in things, so sadly, he knows everything. He tells the story countless times, in the oddest shrug of offhandedness, but its only ever to himself. To him-- it's more odd than anything. How he could be so shy of living a completely different life without Rita, Mizuki, Noiz, or the triplets.

But he's straying.

There is a car, and a shrapnel of glass involved in this story. To Clear's dismay, he knows of the accident. He knows what happened, honestly. But ask him to his face, and he'll deny, deny, deny. Details have shoved themselves into a crevice he doesn't care to vocalize about and he hopes it'd be respected.

It always starts the same way when he explains it to himself. The initial-- " _when was, was it? Yeah, December."_ before the rest of his would-be words to anybody accumulate flawlessly in his mind.

Being from a small town with nothing more than an EZ mart and family grocer, the family was faced with traveling two hours back and forth to the nearest hospital. The newborn twin boys were healthy, but his mother was worried. According to grandpa, Clear's birth scared the hell out of her. She loved him, of course, but he was frail. His life wasn't even guaranteed until he was three days old.

She was constantly on edge, panicking at every cough to come out of her Albino baby. It was a rare thing. Nobody expected, or even fathomed the idea of a pale gene hiding in her stomach, until Clear emerged as white as the blanket he was born in. She thought he was sickly. His father obsessed over his eyesight, his skin, his voice. He probably spent more time in the hospital than a baby should. But he was healthy enough, in the end, which was the point.

But then Stetson came along, only two minutes shy of James. They were visibly healthy, with their father's brown eyes and their mother's hued skin. Clear held-- _James, was it? No, no_ \-- Clear held his newborn Stetson at four years old, with the widest smile and the most excited feeling of finally being a big brother.

Clear remembers that his feet didn't yet reach the floor of the car. There were two baby carriers strapped in next to his car seat. And it was snowing in the brush of the mountain side they were driving through.

There, snow piles up as it wants to; on the sudden and still curls of asphalt that their hometown had deemed a road. The mountain town was only a part of rocky hills; The road to anywhere was a long spiral down, and an hour of forest in order to keep from disturbing the crawling hillside.

It was beautiful, mostly. When he returned to the hometown at age fourteen with Rita, for another funeral, and rode through the same turns, the snow lulled him to sleep. He felt it was too familiar to be speeding through. the beauty pained him.

Beautiful, mostly. It could have happened to anyone, but it happened to them. Beautiful, marginally. Just him.

The only thing he could possibly admit to is that he admired the snow plastering the fields they were passing. The radio was off. The parents were talking. The twins were sleeping beside him. It was the empty, ready-to-be-filled void that is 4 years old. Quiet potential.

His best guess is that his dad didn't see when the bridge instructed him to 'slow in case of ice'.

And now Clear has no twin brothers. Or a mom. Or a dad who didn't get to the breaks in time.

 

* * *

 

Maggie is the lightest of the siblings, so she is the only one fit to sit on Clear's shoulders without straining him. She's a lot more gentle than her brothers, who like to yank his hair in order to steer him, or cover his eyes to make him bump into something. Instead, her tiny fingers have laced together on his head, as she looks around at the tents and hoarder-esque field of antiques. She shows mild interest in the broken keyboards from the 1980's, along with toys that are so dirty, Clear feels like he should swat her hand from touching it.

He has a lot of soft spots, but the biggest one is for Maggie.

"Clear! Look!" She chirps, maybe a little too loudly, and as Clear asks what it is, he sees her hand form above pointing at a grimy rocking horse. One on springs, with paint chipping off of it, and rusted metal all around.

"Can we go look at it?" She asks excitedly. Clear swears up and down that she gets her love for old things from Rita, even if it's not genetic. It's something.

Clear obliges to his little sister, herding the other two kids up and hitting what must be the pit of 'my children left home, here are their toys'. Every station seems to leak with trinkets, stuffed animals, and things so old, the sharp edges look intimidating.

The kids find pleasure in this. Clear slides Maggie down from his shoulders, and watches as she and her brothers grace old women with their presence.

_Bzzt_   
_Bzzt_

He flops his qwerty phone open, expecting a text from Noiz (who probably fell back asleep in the middle of their conversation again), but sees another name fill the screen. Rita must have told his brother about the yearly antique scouting.

_From: Mizuki:_   
_u guys at the flea market today?_

_to: Mizuki:_   
_It's the most wonderful time of the year!_

_From: Mizuki:_   
_u guys are still coming to see new dragon movie w me yea?_

_To: Mizuki:_   
_Of course. 4?_

_From: Mizuki:_   
_yeah_

With that, he makes small talk with one of the elderly woman at a station. Her box of stuff is mostly toys, with a few (now decorative) kitchen utensils hanging on the side, and a handful of jewelry. The woman smiles at him genuinely, which apparently is enough to prompt him to ignore his bare arms and smile back. He feels a little puny when he feels like he's scraping pennies together for company.

"I think you're handsome," she says, taking his palm in her hand and laying it back in his lap. "You shouldn't do that."

He only smiles, but now with a faux and bitter context. For some reason, Clear disregards her. Maybe a touch of being offended, though nothing along the lines of anger. He's really thankful that he was looked at in general, but the context is too broad.

Too, too broad to be so dim in his ears.

 

 

* * *

 

They found Clear in the same ditch they found Stetson in.

Frost ate his baby brother up in minutes. Clear can only assume the same was inflicted onto James. Clear can only assume that it took much more to wipe out his mother and father.

Someone had passed by with their teen daughter in the passenger side, and they sobbed into Clear's muffled earshot. There were no phones. Either town was forty-five minutes away. The parents, and the babies, were gone before minutes. How long had Clear been lying there? The sky was dark.

But Clear must have moved. He must have moved, or breathed, or _something_ , because he was put into the back of a woman and her teen's car, with the heart blaring and heavy winter coats swaddling him. It was a heavy feeling, nearly strangling him as he grew through adolescence; the scent of that vanilla tree hanging at the rear view came to rest in his memory. He hates the smell of vanilla so much.

"His hair is white."  
"His fingers are blue."  
"His face is bloody. There's glass in his eye."

_My hair is supposed to be white, Stupid._

Doctors yelled a stormed around, for the apparent well-being of a six year old. Clear didn't know-- he didn't _care_ that he was in an uncomfortable room. The ice that covered the trees he could have sworn he _just saw_ were now beeping monitors and hustling orders. That's so not fair.

He was just sleepy. He's glad he feigns memory loss, not recalling as much as everyone else did about that day-- and the long nights that followed. Even Rita gets sour if he tries to bring it up.

The first thing that comes to his mind when thinking of the _After_ portion of his life, is lying in a different bed. This was his granddad's house, with a freshly lit holiday candle next to a handmade twin bed. Made for him. His stomach hurt, he was hungry, and wanted to know why nobody told him they were at Granddad's. A surprise visit to his grandparent so much more appealing than the hospital. His eye was deemed no good, which is a nearly comical throw from the usual "Albino eye problems", because Clear constantly has to explain that he was  _not_ born with a blind eye. He was running with scissors. A lie.

Grandpa started with, "Mom and dad are going to let you stay here with me. Sound fun?"

A lie.

But it did sound fun. He was then spoiled rotten by all the toys, church-made sweets, and hugs he could handle. People patted his white head, told him he was  _a miracle_ , and amused every word that came out of his childish mouth.

"They just want me to play with you, since the babies can't. They can't eat my food either, so you're my buddy." A good willed lie, but still that.

Clear was his buddy. So he smiled against the elements, and let his dad's dad pull him into a reassuring hug.

He hugged Granpda with all the strength his little arms could give. Tears didn't wait. 

He missed Stetson and James.

* * *

 

When Rita tracks them down, her arms are full and her round face is excited.

 "Look at this!" She chirps, presenting to her older son, of all things, a VHS tape. She then went on to explain the fact that there might be a tape player in the closet of the office, and that maybe they should start gathering VHS tapes in lieu of DVDs. Rita a simple. Simple, but wordy, so tuning her out isn't as much as a vice as you'd think Clear would do. And he does, believe him,  _he does_.

They're now rounding up into the car anyway. Clear grimaces only a little at the hoard Rita had shoved into the back of their van this year. Bo is especially excited about the VHS tape now, expecting _The Lion King_  to look any different then it usually does.

So they engage in the usual Mother/Son/Young Triplets dialogue until the younger party had huddled into Clear's tiny car. Somehow, the topic had morphed from movies, to Mizuki, to dragons, and possibly the whiff of _Mizuki being a dragon_ , but it's settled on who's riding in front on the way back. Cecil wins. Mizuki would make a terrible dragon with no fire power.

Really, the rest of it is a hill. They meet up with Mizuki, who gives a screwed face when greeted by Bo with "We decided you'd make a bad dragon."

"Did you teach them these things?" He feigns offense to Clear.

"You've only been gone a week!" Clear retorts.

"Fame has changed you, Clear." Mizuki says with a scoff.

Clear snorts a laugh, trailing the kids and his brother into the theater.

The movie, like all children's movie about dragons, is AMAZING. They muse about the effects, the sounds, their favourite parts, and agree to set aside a monthly date for this.

"We miss you, Mizuki." Maggie whines when they split ways towards their vehicles.

"Aw," Mizuki drags out, kissing her cheek. "I miss you too. Clear's not gone, though!"

Clear smiles. It's somehow kin to the faux smile he gave to the old woman earlier, but in what way, he's unsure of.

"Yeah. I'll be here!" He exclaims in opposition of his pooling emotions striding to him again.

He feels weird. But explaining it is pointless. It's just the same underlying attitude he always has, the distaste for the way he stands for something other than he is, only inflated.

Clear has these times where all he can think about is anger, aspiring dysphoria, and being by himself.

Sometimes, those moods just happened to be extinguished by a snarky grin with metal beads dotting the bottom, but most of the time, he shoves it deep in his chest and uses it to defend against those hungry kisses that sometimes come his way. Mostly from people who have to be intoxicated just to use him. Huh.

 _Nobody_ needs to tell Clear about himself.

Clear can barely even tell other people about himself.

_He's just Milo Whitney; School Albino, mono-eyed, the biggest mess you can get. Please say it with a laugh at the end, or else it'll sound threatening._

He unenthusiastically carries this burden with him while he drives home. While he helps Rita do that-- that habitual, number splitting cooking thing. While he stomachs it as best he can (his mindset permits him no food, despite the good taste). And ultimately, while he lets his limbs collapse onto his mattress. Not meaning to, he slips into another mid-day sleep, only to wake up just before midnight.

  
Now, he's okay. Well-- He's not angry anymore.

He just doesn't understand why he is the way that he is.

He's happy. Really, he is.

He's willing. He smiles. As Noiz says, "you're too happy to be living in a place like this.",and as Aoba once mumbled, "You could swallow the sun up whole if you wanted to, baby."

Goosebumps dot his forearms when rehearing a blue haired beauty's hymn-like voice. It peppers in his ear, but he ignores it as best he can. He hangs onto the affectionate  _baby._

_Baby._

_Baby, why are you so angry?_

_"Clear,"_ Noiz said once, " _you look pissed off about something."_

Clear has never, ever been able to pinpoint his anger. It's danced around his wake since he was only a kid. The anger can mix with a lot of things, but mostly it's just the stuffy air of being sad and uncomfortable.

In the back of his head, he wants to text Noiz, only because Noiz is probably awake at midnight. But he decides against it, because Aoba's probably awake, too.

_No._

_No, No._

_Cut it out. What's wrong with you?_

_Aoba's probably awake, too. I have his number saved. It's even still in there as" <3 Aoba <3" _

_Worth it?_

_No._

_But then again-_

"Ugh. Scatterbrain." he mutters to himself. It's true. His mind is such a dud beehive these days.

  
Clear feels undoubtedly fed up with himself, with that flop in his stomach that answers the open-ended question for him every time he does this.

The thought pricks him and makes him feel like scum. _  
_

He doesn't mean to cry, but it seeps out in a constricted way. He holds his breath in his lungs in a stubborn ode to his misery, only to take a large sobbing gasp after his eyes start burning. He knows it's a terrible and morbid thing to think about so much. He's so sorry-- He can't make himself know any better. It's not _hateful_ , it's not  _desperate_ , and out of all the things he thinks about so much,  _he's not angry._

He just wants to know.

Would Rita have another boy filling his bunk? Would that same-- maybe able-eyed kid be who Stoned Noiz insists on kissing? Would he like it as much as Clear does? Maybe, that kid would have been able to keep Aoba within their grip. Maybe Clear's just done this whole  _life_ thing all wrong, and this other kid would make much more use of his materials.

Clear cries very regularly.

He's very quiet about it. His face feels hot and yucky.

He knows this will pass, as well as the icky mindset he'll have for a few days, so he'll let it out. Clear knowingly wets his pillow and a billion Kleenex tissues before he thinks he's done.

 

_"[Twenty-eight](https://instaud.io/2F0). Tell me, are you single yet? My heart's as big as Texas."  
_

 

 

The ringtone Noiz assigned himself on Clear's phone makes him flinch. That stupid monotone voice makes Clear seriously want to demote him back to default. It's creepy.

But he answers anyway. Noiz is better than Aoba anyway. Right?... Right.

  
He wishes he blew his nose, because he answers his phone with a clogged, "Hello?"

Nothing.

Breathing.

Shuffling.

Crying.

"I-" Noiz whimpers.

Nothing.

Crying.

"Are you-- Are you okay?" Clear's nasally voice makes him sound a little pathetic, but he adds an addressing "Noiz..." At the end. Thank god for Noiz. Clear is obligated to fold himself up in order to break the seal on his friend again, and it's a blessing. Leaving Clear alone with his thoughts is never good.

"I'm just _so_ -" Noiz grinds out. "Ugh-- Fuck."

Shuffling.

"Clear,"

Sighing.

"I'm just so, so tired."

 

_Aren't we both, baby?_

 


	5. This is What the Ghost of Someone's Dad Says

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: psychical abuse, verbal abuse, religious conversation, mention of self harm

 

**Chapter Track: The Hollows- Why?**

 

_This goes out to all my underdone, other-tongued, lung long front men_  
 _This is what the ghost of someone's dad says,_  
 _And all us earth growths_  
 _Doing the croak like it ain't no joke_

 

chapter five- **(NOIZ'S POV)**

* * *

 

As always, Noiz ends up getting frustrated with tying his tie and discards it for a just-as-good snap on. He never learned how to knot one of those things, but he hasn't worn a tie at all in so long. It's a miracle he even found the snap-on.

He thinks it's monthly-- or bi-annually, or something like that. This formal get together for the church and their missionaries to talk about what they've done, who they've helped, and all that cal. Though this is his parent's excuse for absence, their status has granted them more privileged regions to fly to. So they go to these things.

"Son." The knock at his door makes him groan inwardly. He doesn't want to go to church. He sheds all the metal his face has to offer, leave his hat somewhere on his floor, and trudge through 4 hours of being polite and repeating things to older people who can't hear all that well anymore.

Up until now, Noiz has weaseled out of attending these get-togethers. His stomach hurts. His car got a flat tire. His suit is dirty and the meeting starts in 10 minutes. (read: he was too high to walk, he was too immersed in some YouTube video he was watching at Clear's house to stray, and he was too tired to care)

  
"Coming." He says, with one last grimace at his mirror. He's always hated how ill suits fit on him.

His father looks him over several times, in some sort of suspicious musk. He seems surprised that his son can look normal sometimes.

"Very good." He says.

Noiz wordlessly nods.

His mother is heard coming from a ways away, with her decorative jewelry clanking around her wrists as she hurriedly applies her earrings. "Okay!" she chirps, with a swing of her hips to display her actually modest churchwear. Her young-but-aged smile means that she is ready, and they should be too. Being 8am, this is a pathetic throw from Noiz's usual time to wake up. But he'll try for his mom. She's not so bad.

It's too early for church, and it's even more of a pain that it's Saturday, and until his folks evacuate the time zone again, he'll be getting up at the asscrack of dawn every Sunday for this shit. Which means this will be happening tomorrow, too.

They pile up into the Hummer, with no conversation to aid them to the meeting. They never talk above "You'll never guess what we saw in Italy.", or what Noiz denounces as "College Talk."

Thankfully, he is spared College Talk.

In lieu however, his dad eyes him in the rear view mirror while he drives, saying that fatherly lovey sentence every son yearns to hear:

"Just act good today, and we'll be gone by Thursday. To Norway. Think you can do it?"

Ah. Yes. Faith.

"Yessir." Noiz supplies, before pasting his eyes back onto his phone, where Sudoku is more interesting than his family.

Their ride from then is an indifferent silence. It never bothers Noiz, since any conversation between the three of them is like answering your phone at the gas pump. His mother is dealt the same, scrolling through her Facebook feed and doing whatever it is Moms do with a Facebook account.

He's but an accessory to the starry couple in the mall they call a church. It's only the rich people who attend the monster, some who have known the Hasenkamps in the _before_ time; Before Noiz was here. Apparently Rhoda and Joseff used to not want to flee the country every three days. Weird that they do now, isn't it?

So he stands. And he's quiet, hopefully with the reward of not being spat on again for another bout of time. People dig for stories of his parent's adventures; The high-class ones in fashion capitals. That one story of getting mugged on the street. They ask how Noiz is doing. They ask about college. He smiles, and nods, and pretends not to hear them when education is brought up.

Noiz mostly tries to keep in contact with Clear, who is oddly enough, awake at this hour under parental commands too. He says, in that perfectly structured way that he texts, that his mom needs him to look after the kids while she shops. Or something. He partially wishes he was around for that; Clear is great with kids, and it's generally just nice to see him interact with them.

They're deciding to talk about the movie Clear plans to see tonight. It's a sequel, apparently good, apparently good enough for him to add _three_  closing parenthesis to his smiling emoticons.

"Adrian," His dad grunts at him, pulling him from his replying position to his ~~crush~~ friend.

"Sir," Noiz answers blandly.

"Get off that thing and go do something."

"Like what."

"There are kids here your age."

He wants to spit, _what, you mean the kids I've never even met before?_

But instead he says, "alright."

And then there he stands in some mini-sea of teenagers. Just like he's pointed out, he doesn't know many of these people. It's not that he's nervous, or shy, but he honestly does not. Care. And there's nothing wrong with that.

"AJ!"

But then again, there's this asshole.

Roy is fucking crazy. He's some vonny, skull-obsessed kid with a deep southern accent that sometimes you _swear_  is too heavy to be real. His parents are given the same wonderful fate Noiz' are; traveling across the world and ~~blowing money~~ spreading the word of whoever. He seldom sees Roy around, and that's because his parents actually bring him along on these trips. So-- even a loud, arrogant, smelly prick like him is worthy to bring to Venice. Noiz, is not? It's bitter to dislike him based on this.

"Hey, AJ!" He smecks, with a grin that kind of give Noiz a hint of the Virus and Trip goosebumps.

Before Noiz can even get a word out, Roy is already on top of a one-sided conversation.

"I've been out, man. I went to Paris, and London, and now I'm back before I go!"

Go?

"Go," Noiz repeats.

"College, brother. Missouri State." His smile doesn't at all hide the fact that he is pleased with himself.

Noiz, silent, only comments to himself that, of course, this was bound to happen. Ambition isn't in his genes, and looking at any legal documents only exhausts him. Hell, he's never even mustered up the motivation to forge his mom's signature on report cards.

"That's cool." Noiz raises his eyebrows up just to feign interest. Roy's slimy grin (still, weirdly similar to Virus') is to reply, and it's disgusting because he knows of Noiz's laziness. He knows Noiz has no plans, or the smarts to make plans, and the bolo tie wearing asshole has always enjoyed flaunting his achievements.

This is challenging his forced calm mindset. But he prevails, he likes to think.

So he wordlessly stands around _again_ , checking his inactive phone often, listening to countless ramblings of priests and the church staff. Listening to the countless plans of children two years younger than he is, with all their obnoxious stability and meaningful relationships, while he nurses some iced water in a glass and wishes he was rummaging through some rusty antiques with Clear.

He's alright with not knowing the kids here. Noiz is in fact in favour of not getting to know them, to save his inferiority complex from flaring up and ruining everything concerning his parents' next leave.

A young, but capable priest helps himself to the middle podium that centers the arena they call a church. This is probably, he assumes, some speech about how _well_ the missionaries are doing, and how _proud_ they all should be.

"'Scuse--" the microphone fades in before the young man starts again, "'Scuse me, everyone, can we all please gather?" and things of that sort, the encouraging "alright" when a nice group of people have sat in the pews. Noiz takes a place in the middle-ish, at the end, anxiously checking the time and wondering what in the hell other people are doing with their day. Not that he would get much done himself.

  
"First, I'd like to thank everyone for coming tonight." He starts when the crowd has turned their obedient ears, "I see a lot of familiar faces, a few new, but it's all great to have you here."

Noiz tunes the next bout of do-good talk with a sweep across the room, questioning the whereabouts of his parents. He initially searches for that flash of his mother's pink dress, and catches it up front. Next to his father, along with a string of people who are of some importance evidently. Roy is up there. So are the younger kids with bigger hopes. And he sits here playing Temple Run and trying to seem like he's not bothered with being an unfamiliar face.

The speech is tiring, but easy to follow. Missionaries are God's army. We should be ecstatic. We should tell stories of this to everyone. Look at how educated we have become. Look at how many people we've been able to help.

All of this is done while Noiz does absolutely nothing. To Roy's treks across Asia, there are embarrassing walks of shame to the principal's office.

His Father eventually is welcomed up to the microphone, with some warm joke that makes the people within earshot laugh, though not picked up by the rest.

"Rhoda and I have been so busy lately," He smiles onto the audience, "But it's just about worth it to end up here to see you- To see all of us here in unity for one reason."

Noiz brings in a large breath to himself, because he knows he is not included in this.

"And I know we haven't been around much-- or that Christopher is no longer around to take our place."

_Because nobody else is evidently worth Christopher's place._

"But I digress. I hope this upcoming Summer allows us many new opportunities. It's already blessed some of us. I know a few of you parents have gotten exciting college news."

His mother looks at Noiz with a familiar expression- one of pity, and nothing else.

"Let us all join in prayer."

Noiz, unwillingly, follows suit and bows his head. The rest of the speech from then on is a crushing woosh of nonsense.

He feels so uncomfortable when he tries to pray.

 

* * *

They insist on having Noiz around for the last remaining hours, to stand by their side while that jabber with older people and exclaim their newest plans with smiles on their litsos.

It's Matthew, Roy's father, who brings his son in closer and holds him by the shoulder. "This kid-- He's about to go'n to do so much good." is his praise, with a toothy smile and a well meaning laugh. Roy smiles too, with a smug "I worked hard for it."

Noiz has to force a grown in his lips to feign something like a grin. It's not important.

"I'm so proud of that boy." His father has a warm smile spread across his face. It might be one of genuine feeling (Noiz wouldn't know. He's never made this face), but it's more akin to a shit-eater's ode to having only two children. Sans the younger one with metal in his face.

So he makes this sound.

Noiz feebly clears his throat and says the stupidest thing he can probably say. He says with a tart laugh, "What, not proud of me, Dad?"

His dad snorts. "Smoking weed and sleeping through life." and with a smeck, "And you're comparing yourself to a State College?"

There's a flash of heat that runs in his body, that signals that he is about to fall to impulses.

_Okay-- You can breathe, right?_

I can do so much more than breathe

_You're such an idiot. But you're already dead._

The internal conversation happens all at once as he acts.

His arm only gives into a reflex.This isn't smart. Noiz is a lot of things, smart has never been one of them, but this is beyond stupid.

It's only when the water is coating his dad's face when he know exactly what he's done. He flung his glass right into the man's face, because _fuck_ Missouri,  _fuck_ Roy, and _fuck_  being the constant butt of these jokes.

So he's being stared at by just about everyone. His mom's hand covers her mouth in fearful anticipation of the feedback, while other company is left with agape mouths and shifting eyes between the father and son. They too know that Noiz is an idiot.

Reaction: No words, just the strain of his father pulling him by the arm, dragging from the room to a private place. Which is bad. His mother tries to follow-- she tries, but is met with some sort of German commandment that stops her from trailing them. Also, terrible signs. She watched Joseff walk off with her son with a dreaded look on her face.

Does Noiz feel bad for this? No, he does not.

But is he going to end up feeling bad? Probably so. And probably psychically more than anything else.

All he can hear is the exasperated, grunts of his name form his father's mouth, while his fists ball up and shove him into the hallway wall.

"Look at me." He's ordered.

Noiz does no such thing.

" _Adrian._ "

He refuses.

But two hands seize him by the jaw and force his face up. The pressing hurts his neck-- it's some sort of border-line choke hold that should probably alarm him more than it does. He's now held into eye contact that makes him want to upchuck more than DXM does.

"Do you have a death wish, son?" His father gets close- close enough to smell that cologne and that dousing of mouthwash in his mouth. That smell always makes him dizzy- too planned and the lie of stability. He just hates the smell of cologne all together.

"No." is all he says. He's wasted too much energy on not trying to break character to come up with anything clever. So he locks eyes with his attacker and tries to outlast the silence. The hold on either side of his jaws threaten a gasp-- and when it comes, with a gulp of heavy air, he is shaken violently. Against the wall he is slammed against again, this time his head bouncing off the drywall and making him grunt in pain. He can't fake unresponsiveness.

Noiz is overcome with this feeling of a plummet; From this point in the defenseless struggle on, he couldn't be bothered to stand up for himself. He thought-- well, _he didn't_ , but he always daydreamed of being able to fight back. He's never been able to hold his own against his dad, so it's impossible to accomplish such a dream, but it's a motivator of sorts.

The usual, "Today, I won't be a rug" constantly keeps him from going crazy.

But now, being pinned to a wall from his neck, and his dad's grimy mug sneering at him-- he just wants it to be over. Like always. He'll relax his tension and succumb to whatever will get him alone quickest.

"You-" his father grumbles, "-need to learn to show some respect. To me. To your mother--"

"you are the biggest _brat_ I have ever had to deal with" The holder says to his son.

And that, apparently, is that.

gladly, he stomps back to the hummer as he is told and falls asleep in the back seat. He's in deep, he was told, that _this isn't over. You're not going to disrespect me and get away with it._

something in the back of his head lets him know that he only has himself to blame for not scratching the side of the vehicle and walking off. He's just a kid who is scared of his dad, and it makes him sick to his stomach to think about how embarrassed he would be if Koujaku saw him right now.

Noiz isn't supposed to be just some kid that's scared of his dad. Why does he keep acting like it?

Because, in truth, that's all he really is.

* * *

 

The driver and passenger door slam and wake him. It's only noon; Three hours since struggling for breath in a church. His parents are both very quiet, it is obvious, but between them is shared a bit of small talk. About their friends, the pastors, and things of like. Ignoring Noiz all the way to their house, all the way to his bedroom, and say nothing when he falls back asleep.

He wakes up, and it's 6pm.

6pm is usually a staple in his day. It's when he turns the TV on, when he takes a shower, when he texts back his ~~crushes~~ ~~friends~~ _friend_ , or when he speculates what's for dinner. When he thinks of it now, with the sun mid-set, he nonchalantly echoes something Clear said a few months ago.

 _"I can usually walk in at anytime and smell some food being made. Even if there's nothing going on. I guess it's good we're healthy."_ of course, complimented with that complex smile of his.

He creeps downstairs, with an untouched kitchen greeting him. The hum of his parents TV from their closed bedroom. The decision that he'll heat up some spaghetti o's and climb back into bed sounds like the best one he's made in a while. Since he's feeling shitty, he'll go through the process of heating the food up on the stove as opposed to the microwave-- maybe something so little will help him feel like less of a lazy slug.

There's a small checklist: The can opener, prepping the stove, fishing out a pot without making too much racket, and maybe retrieving something to put on top of them. He's had a bad day. He deserves some goddamn pepperoni and Spaghetti-o's.

This is what he does. Noiz makes himself a couple of bowls worth, eats up both, and curls back up into bed with his laptop and shifts through short naps and internet surfing.

So, after all this, it's almost midnight.

The day is almost over, he comments to himself. Thank /lord/ that he somehow fucked up repeatedly, and still hasn't been made to draw blood. He hasn't tempted the sting of hot cigarette lights for years now-- and if nobody else is proud of him for it, he's proud of himself. He's also proud that he chose the unobvious places-- the inside of his legs, the small of his back, or his upper arms that are always covered anyway.

In fact, he's come to forget that he's ever laid smiles on his skin. Today, even though it made him want to do so many things, it hasn't yet come to that, and he'll admittedly give himself at least something.

He wonders if anyone else would be this proud of him, too, but decides that it doesn't matter. He's proud of himself. For just this.

* * *

 

 He's laying in bed. The TV is muted, and some of those vulgar, sex-site commercials are airing due to the late hour. Those tend to make him bored- he's never had interest in meeting  _hot singles in his area._  
  


 The knock at his door startles him and makes him piss-scared of who is on the other side.

"Son."  
  


Noiz sighs through his nose.  
  


"Yeah," he calls back.  
  


Joseff lets himself in, hanging onto the doorknob and staring at Noiz for a good while. "Let me talk to you." He finally says, intruding and placing himself on the side on Noiz's mattress. Noiz cautiously closes his laptop, staring at his father rightfully in suspicion, because he knows some words about to be had.  
  


"AJ, I didn't mean to hurt you today. But I'm sorry."  
  


If you could hear that-- that's the sound of the air conditioner making a loud hum. It's the only thing that says anything for a while.  
  


 "But you know what you did. You've been--  _so_ _ungrateful_." He continues, "And you think everything has to be about  _you_."  
  


 He can't help but flinch when his dad lays a shoulder on his back. His dad emits a sigh and one of those nods-- that he thinks what he's just said is profound and unbiased.  
  


 "Don't you think so too?" He dips his voice in an empathetic tone, "You make is so hard on us."  
  


 "I'm sorry." is all Noiz says. In uniform, he cocks a smile at his dad and tries to wrap his head around it. He wishes he could be the type to believe this- that he is to blame for their treatment of him. That he provokes. But he just has a hard time believing they could be impacted from so far away. He doesn't even know his mom's maiden name.  
  


 His dad looks pleased- with the defeated posture of Noiz and the apology gritting around in his teeth like sand. His face is still straight, but he rolls his tongue in his cheek and gives what he believes is a disarming smile. Noiz is not fooled- it's not that same blissful smirk he had when talking about Roy.

 "I love you, son."  
  


 "Love you too, Dad."  
  


 And with that, he is left on his bed, the air conditioner giving out and leaving that ear-piercing ring of silence swallow him up.  
  


 Believe him when he says he hates how easy he is to cry.

 

Believe him when he says that he wishes  _so desperately_ to be above this. That he could be unaffected, or even indifferent to those hands that like to pat his back and choke him against drywall.

 

His face is hot-- burning and annoying him, even more so when he has to put special effort into concealing his sounds. 

 

And Noiz is 100% aware of how odd it is that, in the midst of his silent blubbering, he coils a heavy knit scarf around him; The one he was recently given. He only slightly scolds himself for leaving the article left on the floor like everything else, but as soon as it's around his neck, he find himself to be so selfish. 

Because he knows Clear would do just about anything to keep his Father away from him. He has this hatred for him-- a lot more open that Noiz's is-- about Joseff, about Rhoda, and even a little about Christopher. Despite the Albino not knowing of the dated adoption papers that like to rest in the back of Noiz's nerves, he shows contempt for any Hasenkamp family member he hasn't been kissed by.

 

One day, he swears he'll do it sober. It might not feel as good, but it'll bring a cleaner conscious.

 

It's something that simple that convinces him to get  _some sort_ of a grip on himself. But before he could think, he's already unlocking his phone. Noiz doesn't mind right now. The desperation he's flung himself into far out-weighs the anxiety of interrupting his best friend. and it's nearly midnight. He's probably asleep. But he tries anyway. He won't even try to wipe his tears or clear his throat. Maybe it's just the fact that he  _tried_  that will let him sleep.

 

One ring

Two-

Th-

 

"Hello?"

Noiz really, really didn't expect for Clear to answer. From under his blanket, he turns around, instantly cursing himself for bothering anyone with his bullshit.

 

"I-" he starts, but it falls short. It also sounds a little pitiful.

He embarrasses himself with a few sobs. 

 

_why does he have to make everything about himself?_

 

"Are you-- Are you okay?" Clear empathizes from the other end, now with a noticeable nasally tone. Noiz wants to ask if he's okay, too. Because he worries about Clear. Clear never comes to vent about anything.

 

"Noiz..." He hears again.

 

"I'm just  _so_ -" Noiz grinds out. "Ugh-- Fuck."

 

So  _what?_

 

_I'm just so sorry_

_I'm just so nervous_

_I'm just so terrible and didn't even know it_

_Clear- I,_

"Clear," He says.

He only brings another sigh through his nose.

"I'm just so, so tired."

 

_Please tell me that you are, too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im S O rry it took so long to update. this sat on my desktop finished for like 2 weeks but i never got around to editing it so-- ahhhhh
> 
> (insert more bitching about how this is super choppily written and i apologize but i also just said it so)
> 
> thank you for supporting me and my terrible time management i am n n ot wo o rt hy of some of you omg crIES
> 
> i hope this is readable!! finally the actual running away part is nearing


	6. You are Nothing Vacant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys i'm so obsessed with scrubs its unreal.
> 
> im rushing this story so tastelessly and for that im sorry i wasnt kidding when i said my planning is piss poor HAHA

**Chapter Track:[Don't Try and Hide it- The Dodos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gDf_w_Aoeqc)[  
](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UAsTlnjvetI)**

 

_And what the hell were you putting your faith in?_   
_Something you could not, someone you look too_

 

_Chapter six (RITA'S POV)_

Rita is worried about her son's friend.

Adrian, who happily took advantage of her ' _if you need anywhere to stay, this is it_ ' policy, had been ignoring the calls from his parents. It's not that Rita is nosy, or wants to get rid of the teenager, but she can't help but feel bad when his phone goes off, and he does nothing but turn if phone on the vibrate setting. Their flickering eye contact when this happens lets her know that he's worried about himself, too. But he is not hers to boss around. 

She's asked her son. Clear smiles, it's the smile he thinks she knows nothing about, and he says "They had a fight. I'm sure he'll come around."

That grin has evolved the second he was put into her custody. At first, it was a 'I'm not uncomfortable, I swear, please don't be upset', with the change of environment. Then it disappeared for months, only to come back with the heartbroken context that 'it's just until i'm 18'

Now, Rita knows that something is going to happen. And Clear is certainly going to be in the middle of it.

But she trusts him. The last thing she wants to do is love him to _death_ , protectiveness supplying more harm than good. He's been a good kid from the start, so it should be nothing to worry about. But she is a mother, and she _does_ worry, and it's not her fault. It's not Clear's, either. Or even Adrian. It's a good thing that she's fretful.

Now, they're all asleep. Adrian has taken over Mizuki's top bunk, which leaves more room than expected. Rita thinks about calling his parents, sometimes even meeting with them, but she somehow refrains. She's easy to feel contempt towards certain parent tropes, especially if they resemble her guest. They're distant. And according to what Clear told her in confidence, think nothing of their son but to be an broken object. It hurts her. Adrian is a nice kid, a wonderful kid in fact, who stands out with his choice in piercings and words, but in different ways. His exterior, admittedly, is a little discouraging. She couldn't keep herself from wondering if Clear needed to be hanging around someone of his reputation at first, but then she met him.

His appearance in Clear's life developed into a Bogsend, that didn't fix him, but took the infection out of a deep gash. The Albino boy's censors fell off his face. His voice was more carried, and slightly more convincing. He slept. He talked. He had a mutual loneliness, that Mizuki never understood, with Adrian.

She's thankful to at least think of this all in one setting. Comfortable enough to fret and concern, but in a not-too-hurried-fashion that implies that timing is everything.

They're just kids, she insists. They're far from self sustaining.

So she'll trust that Adrian will find his way back home, however long it may be.

 

* * *

 

_(Clear's POV)_

His eyes and fingers focus on the little bits of wood that stick up from the picnic table as the silence between them is prolonged. He doesn't know who Noiz is texting. In truth, it doesn't matter, so he simply waits for his attention to reset. Mostly, his mind has been thrown into a rut that's wearing him down. Maybe sitting at a vacant picnic table, just far enough from the playground to make children shouting nothing more than background mess, is all that's keeping him from losing daily steam.

Forget that Noiz invited himself to Clear's house, only to hastily request that they run off. Noiz is an extreme person who takes things to heart in an admittedly dense way. Forget that he's been ignoring and even silencing his phone when "dad" banners across the top of his phone. And forget that the rash idea has bubbled up nothing but silence between them for the past few days.

He's just not so sure that's capable for what Noiz has proposed, and he as stupidly gone along with.

" _Listen,_ " he had said, feeble voiced in the dark of Clear's room on the first night he showed up, " _You don't have to go with me._ "

But Clear panicked. He was choked by his small desire for something _different_  and for that _kid_ with problematic tendencies. So he said, "No, I will."

"But please," was his only plea, "Just give it two weeks. Just to make sure, huh?"

Noiz wasn't even forced to agree, with a thankful and excited nod.

With this handicap, Clear was in hopes that Noiz's wild plan would be put to rest, or be extinguished over the fortnight. While he felt guilty, for the smile that lit up Noiz's face once he heard cooperation, he also found himself become scared. He's not used to getting mixed up with things he couldn't just go home and ignore. He was faced to deal with his motives, noting completely that they were in favour of Noiz, and that Clear did in fact have feelings for him, and this was it. That Clear did, in fact, agree on terms that it was him he would be running away with. And That Noiz isn't fully equipped to roam around on his own, even with him in tow. But being left in this town to rot seemed just about as aimless as discarding the last four years he's spent here for a nervous walk to the bus station.

But still, he hoped two weeks would give him time to simmer down.

Hoped.

But half of this bargain has already gone to waste, and this time next Thursday Clear might very well be chasing after Noiz into No-Man's-Land. He's found it easier to not ask "What about money?" or something akin to "What will we do once a snag has hit?" and he's mostly debating whether or not he should fall to this plan at all.

And don't misjudge him; He's been logical about this. During the time he's watched Noiz carefully map themselves out, he's only watched. Clear hasn't come to listen, so he couldn't really say back what exactly they will do for food, or transportation, or shelter for that matter. It was not his own proposal that Noiz worry about things, which is nice enough, however it's only let Clear fester in this constant "sure, but what if--? and what about--?" argument he's had with himself.

He thinks about Rita. And he thinks about the triplets, and Mizuki. And he's even thought about Aoba.

But it all comes down to Noiz, as it often does.

Pro and Con lists have always been Clear's go to. He's never been the idiot to keep them. But they've been the only source he trusts for a while now. Though his decisions are rarely ever considered good ones, he supposes it's the illusion of having good values that keeps him burning.

He remembers he made his first one when he first moved in with Rita; The second semester of freshman year nigh, he made a list considering the potential use of some sunglasses and a handkerchief.

The pros won.

In fact, while sitting at the kitchen table with Noiz discreetly dancing around the subject of running off, he started to jot down the little "T" chart he does by instinct in the margins of an old, long completed grocery list. He had never noticed just how embedded the habit was in him, and though only three days ago when it hit him, he's realized with utmost dreadfulness that he does, constantly, depend on these flimsy charts. And they've done him minimal welfare, even for as much practice as he's had with the things.

He remembers hastily folding a piece of graded homework paper in half (what was it-- 'hamburger style' is what Rita called it-- along the horizontal lines of the notebook paper) and scratching out a tiny one. Sophomore year, when the last two days before class was dismissed rimmed with finals and slack schedules. He was to provide an answer to Mizuki before he went without him.

 _"Pros/ Cons"_ with a small heading of " _Christmas party"_ , The pros won. And a fat lot of good that did him.

Though comically enough, he went through this same ordeal when Aoba slopped that ugly lie out of his pretty mouth. This made his otherwise ignored facial cloaks a mockery. So "if it starts this way, no one will care over time" went to shit quickly.

_"Pros/ Cons: showing my face"_

Pros won. But this led him to met Noiz. Despite also leading to feeling ungodly miserable when wind blows against him.

_"Pros/ Cons: liking Noiz"_

Pros, again, triumphed. But he decided to ignore it.

So now, he's faced with another, again leading to Noiz, and again concerning something that he's probably liable to mess up.

_"Pros/ Cons: Running away"_

It hasn't gotten much farther than that. The title reiterates itself in his head, painstakingly taking its time with anything useful.

All he can wonder is if Noiz himself is a pro, because not much else is at the moment. He hates sitting at the picnic table, though with sunglasses, in a fidgeting quiet while Noiz stalls conversation.

But Noiz is a man of habit, and the robbery of their daily lunch is something he had to redeem somehow.

 

* * *

 

  
Last night is when Noiz sat on the bottom bunk with Clear until the small hours after midnight, his restlessness driving right through the front Clear thought pointless anyway. He's caught it today; That Noiz is just talking in circles in order to fill in the --- air that he figures was his fault by this proposal.

All Clear has heard from him is, "Bus station about 2 miles out of town", "google maps said there's a cheap hotel we can sleep in", and " target small towns who won't look twice at our social security cards"

Other than that, he's just doing busy work like digging around in his backpack, which hasn't been cleansed of their final school year, flipping through the same 3 pages of an outline, and occasionally asking "Right, clear?"

"Right." Clear will always echo.

Noiz attempted to repeat it now, slumped in the corner against the wall while Clear sits criss-crossed and toys with a freemuim mobile game. But he's probably gotten bored with the vocal announcing. Noiz has, actually, a good number of things worked out, but he must feel discouraged to present them.

Clear's guilt is all too there. He knows he's pushing the silence, the lone thing that could describe their interaction at this point being ambivalence. The kid's normal sarcasm has been plagued with

Noiz scribbles idly into his notebook.

"Do you," he starts, like he does, only second guessing himself when he's already spoken. He backtracks, as it shows on his face, and restarts, "I'm not-- You don't feel forced to do this, do you?"

Clear does.

But obviously not by the blonde kid who once had been so aboveboard thinking with this concept. It's Clear's own sluggish approach to life that makes him want to do something else-- something like a turn of the page which makes him want to get off his lazy ass and do something with himself.

But he smiles. He always does with Noiz. "If I wasn't okay with it, I would have said something by now." He assures, as convinced as possible. He says this because, while he feels unsure, it's come far past the point to change his mind. He is doing this, whether he's excited or not. And he is going to lie through his teeth for the sake of how Noiz is willing to cart him off to someplace else.

Maybe he does need a change of scenery, where he and Noiz aren't dropped into the same niche, and they wouldn't be suppressed by reputation to remain so quiet, or to remain so hostile. He doesn't have to be 100% on board. He'll learn to love the idea, even if it is a meek little thought that up until now has been nothing but an artless way to find sleep on Saturday mornings.

This lie, however willing to accept change, lifts Noiz's lips just the slightest like always. The way Clear's words seem to actually work, relieve the slight calamity that's made him so up in himself all week.

Maybe he doesn't want to run away, but he sure as hell wants Noiz to be a fixed part of him. However unsacred the two are together.

"Cool," Noiz says, carving his pencil into the paper in dark circles.

"Yeah," Clear finds himself coveting. It makes him smile.

  
From there, the deadness in their conversation humbly retires, and silence is no longer a pain to deal with. Clear is familiar with himself, and now agrees that the uncomfortableness was his to begin with. He is a regular professional at giving off negative feelings, despite how approachable he tries to seem. It does prick him in the very lightest way that Noiz is no exception to this rule. But for now it's not important, and they carry on juvenile conversation until they are reduced to "yeah," and "i know, man."

Mutually they decide to sleep. Along with the now mutual decision that Thursday is more attractive by at least a fraction.

* * *

 

_(Noiz's POV)_

 

Regardless of his half-assed way of handling most things, Noiz secretly knows what he's doing. And, yeah, it is a big task to walk right into. And sure, he hasn't had a job yet, and he expects himself to keep employed for the sake of surviving, not spending.

Everything he says and does is pretty shopworn, so he excuses himself to keep talk to a minimum while the air was thick with clear's hemming and hawing for the past week. It's troubling, because this isn't the way it was pictured when he first sobbed into the phone a week ago. Then again, he didn't really see himself crying pathetically and begging for too much attention in his life either.

Though very recent, he's already put forth the effort to forget it happened. It's fruitless around Clear, who now has an all-access pass to the fact that Noiz is a dithering idiot who is actually clingy and a savvy pity-partier. He grimaces to even think about the number of times he's bawled to the guy in the past month. All he can toss himself is a sarcastic "Noiz, please do something about that." at self expense.

But Clear deals, with an ounce of grace that is forced yet appreciated.

Noiz has quiet the number of things pin pointed. He knows that his funding for this event is going to come from the safe that his folks think he knows nothing about, that he's been eyeballing for years. Though the sum of two thousand dollars might be missed, it's not like the consequences matter much. His goal of surprising Clear with the destination of Florida take up much more space in his head than being grounded any more.

Still, he feels bad that Clear has been so apprehensive. And still, he's not about to make a goddamn fool of himself for the millionth time. Which is why timing, planning, and company are everything.

And-- Fuck it, he might as well dash the hopes of whatever teenaged letter his parents have seen in movies-- it's not that his parents won't miss him. It's not that he's under appreciated. Because he's already faced it that he's appreciated just the right amount of someone who takes up space and income.

He's just bored with being here. Which is just about is arrogant as it sounds.

He's bored with knowing exactly how long it takes to walk from his house to Mizuki's apartment complex. He's so bored with driving the same roads all the damn time, that his car keys are probably rusting somewhere in the garage. He's sick of the same, dreadful _stale_  feeling he gets every time he wakes up. Every day is just another inch deeper into the circular rut his footsteps have been digging the last 17, almost 18 years.

That's funny to complain when his habitual tendencies force him to the park every day, with stiff thumbs while texting his dealer some mundane cal like 'wimps who always front' or 'he asked me to deliver, its like do i look like a ups man to you? lol'

It should be apt that he feels like a bossy mess, the same feat that feels only slightly guilty for barging into Clear's self-will, because in truth he's the only feature Noiz is aching to keep around. Not that it matters. Not that Clear would be interested in tailgating him in the same circular- maybe sometimes on an interesting day, ovular- rut. Which might be another groove in why he's abruptly decided  _fuck Illinois._

There's, however, a displeasure that weighs on him. He's bound to embarrass himself at some point in time. It's not an "if" situation. More of a "when". He's not self-sufficient, nor is Clear, and this half-roused plan has no fill ins for what to do with kids who don't know how to fend for themselves. He's simply depending on the sedating of him having determined fists, and his intern having indithering optimism. Hopefully his outline will mean shit a week from now.

Against his useless common sense, Noiz insists to himself it'll work out.

* * *

 

Today was the last day he stepped foot in his house.

Of course, it was a toss up in whether or not his parents would still be there. And if they were, he wasn't all too enthused about having a final beating and a final insult, amoung the other 'final' things he had to experience in this town.

It's that damn look Clear gave Noiz that only marginally pissed him off. It's not voluntary; he doesn't think anything of the pity Clear throws his way when it's mentioned that Noiz might just head around and see if his parents are home. He doesn't know  _how_ Clear can be so emotive with sunglasses covering a third of his face, but he _is._

It's reflex, he urges, that he wanted to roll his eyes when Clear said, "I'm sure they love you." in that, it's what just about everyone says. It's what strangers on free therapy chat rooms say. It's what strangers on suicide hotlines say, and it's what Clear said. With nothing but the sake of having good morals, that is what Clear said, despite his very open feelings towards Rhoda and Josef.

Noiz had given a flat-line mush of his lips in mimic of a "yeah, I'm sure" smile, and counted the number of steps it took to get to his house. 234 if it was of any relevance. Clear bordered his side, that means a hell of a lot more than what it looked like, considering that the Albino loathed the public. They don't share much with each other, but Noiz stresses this detail about his friend, because it is the one that he noticed on his own.

It was not very surprising to see the Hummer missing; Even less so when the front door was locked and the key had been removed from the fake plastic rock that is nudged in the soil to look context-appropriate amoung the brush. It was predictable, when he slipped into the backyard that his mom must have intentionally 'forgotten' about the dog door, because it was not sealed.

Because of this stoke of luck, he prompted Clear to follow suit when he jammed himself through the door.

"Cool, so, I just need to pack some shit from my room." Noiz informed, in a much lighter way than he had been talking all day. 

Clear paused a bit before trailing behind Noiz up the stairs, cautiously muttering "I've never been in your room."

"What? Yeah you have." Noiz insisted.

"No," Clear laughed, "I really haven't."

Noiz crunched up his face and thought hard-- because, surely it had happened. Two years of friendship, and Clear  _not_ seeing his room sounds asinine. He's come over plenty. And even so, why would Clear never say any-

"Oh my God you're right" his epiphany came out as soon as he realized it. He doesn't know why he felt like a dick because of it. "And you've never said anything about it?"

"Probably smells like your car." Clear jabbed.

"Probably smells like you shutting up."

"Ow."

"That's right."

His room was indeed a mess. Had he known Clear would be in it for the first time, and had this past week not involved his impulsiveness, he might have picked up some. But he didn't, and he simply emptied his backpack and all its contents onto his bed by shaking it upside down and added to the pile. He stuffed his favourite clothes in, clean or not, and spared some thought for his hat. And a figurine that wouldn't mean much to Clear, but just to him.

" 'sat it?" Clear asked when Noiz zipped the sack closed.

Noiz, finally being in the motivation to do something, replied with "Almost" and swept the strap over his shoulder. 

He's never been much of a thief

But Noiz's mark to his parents of never paying attention gained benefits at this time.The key to a bedroom safe was tucked away safely in his mother's jewelry box. He did feel a pang of guilt when he sifted through the pearls and imitation gold to find it, but he was too eager to mind. The guilt was long gone when he pushed through the walk in closet and all its fashionable guts, to find a seam set in the wall, conveniently in a square shape. The piece of faux drywall departed easily.

"A safe," Clear said dully, "Your dad is so clever. No one ever looks for those."

Noiz snorted. "You're a smartass." he chuckled, thoroughly amused by that remark. It made it easier to reach into the hallowed square set in the wall, and open the iron block.

The cash he knew was set in there was not sitting there in a bulky wad of two thousand dollars, but was obviously just tossed in there. Multiple hundreds were extracted, and handed to Clear to count.

"Ummm," Clear glided the bills between his hands thoughtfully, counting by hundreds, under his breath. "We, are... Good."

"Two thousand?" Noiz tested.

"Two thousand." Clear affirmed.

His ease with stealing from Noiz's father was either an act of worried obedience, or just a lack of empathy for Josef Hasenkamp. Noiz seemed a little smug with settling for the latter. It felt good to know that Clear hated his dad so much it wouldn't bother him to do something he would very well be offended if offered to do to his mom.

"Alright. Told you I wasn't full of it." Noiz heaved the safe back into it's spot, withdrawing the key and replacing the piece of wall.

He half expected Clear to make his third consecutive throw of verbal smack down, but was only met with the shy smile that was only partially enjoyed. Clear had kept those sunglasses of his indoors.

After re-covering the wall with his mother's clothes that hung in front, he approached Clear and stood still.

"Take those off." Noiz tried.

"Nah." Clear rolled his tongue in his cheek. It's nothing Noiz hadn't seen before, but the sunglasses are usually an all-day event. Once Clear puts them on, whether it be for public or the cruel sun, he wouldn't take them off until night had come. And it was only 5 in the evening, so Noiz hated to accept that he was shit out of luck.

"Worth a try." Noiz passes, leading them both from the closet and returning the key to the box.

"No it's not." Clear said in counter attack.

Both challenged each other with intentionally rude smiles, the peak of their snarky banter they call a good place to be in. This was the closest they've come to an actual disagreement for a good chunk of time.

 

From there, their day has only improved. Friday has proved to be a good day for them, as they are no longer teetering on the chance of disagreeing completely.

So good, that Noiz has actually put some thought into his sleeping pattern. It might have been the emotional luggage being lifted from him by never having to see that house again, but he was exhausted by the time 10pm rolled around. Clear seemed to yawn around that time too, and after Rita had prodded at the both of them about their well beings, they thought bed suited them just fine.

"Now that we've got money," Noiz said feebly, dangerously close to the tone he had used when he first confided in Clear, "I'm actually excited."

He imagines this is what cabin mates do when the lights have gone out.

"Yeah, me too," Clear's voice is more of a whisper. He's obviously had practice in bunk-bed conversation. "... I mean, I'm glad we think we know what we're doing."

"Is your mom really okay with me staying here?" Noiz asks.

"She thinks you're great."

"What about your little brothers?"

"Not sure. But Maggie thinks you're cute."

"Oh. Did she say that?"

"No, she said you and your piercings were creepy."

"I'm not creepy."  
  
"You're a little creepy."

"You hang out with me."

"I'm creepy, too."

They laughed considerably loud.


End file.
